


Tales of the Battle

by Northumbrian



Series: Nineteen Years and Beyond [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Character Death, Dumbledore's Army, Gen, Minor Character(s), POV Minor Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 52,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over fifty people died at the Battle of Hogwarts. There are dozens of stories of loss, betrayal, heroism and sacrifice. These are some of those stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calm Before

**The Calm Before**

Hogwarts is my home.

For most of the year it is home to a great many people, both teachers and pupils. I am neither.

I survey my domain, and it is mine, no one else rules here. Even dear old Albus has always treated this part of the castle differently to the rest. He was Headmaster, of that there was no doubt, but here I was always in charge. He would sometimes argue, sometimes protest, especially where Harry Potter was concerned, but he always deferred to me. Because in my domain, I am in control, I am Matron.

I gaze around my Ward, ensuring that everything is as it should be. The Hospital Wing is empty and the beds all made. The beds, like me, are waiting for the inevitable. The two patients I had, Wainwright, a second year with inflamed tonsils and Carter, a third year victim of the Carrows' punishments--the last, I hope--have been sent home.

Minerva McGonagall helped me to change the sheets on those two urgently-emptied beds. As we worked, we watched young Carter hobble out, supported by his sister, a sobbing first year.

'The Carrows are in the dungeon. Fastened up in the chains they used to imprison young Carter.' Minerva answered my unasked question conversationally while helping me tuck in the clean bottom sheet on what had been Carter's bed.  
I hadn't asked her, because I did not want to know where they were. I took an oath, "heal without favour, do no harm," but I am afraid that I would break it if I were faced with those two monsters. What would I do if Amycus Carrow was brought into my ward, injured and dying? I do not know.

The first time I protested at the Carrows' use of both Unforgivable Curses and physical violence the Headmaster agreed with me. To be fair (though I don't know why I should be) Snape did try to rein in the Carrows on many occasions in the first two terms. This term, however, they simply ignored him.

I check the last entry in my ledger, "Daniel Carter, age 13: subjected to the Cruciatus Curse by Amycus and Alecto Carrow, 30 April, also deep leg wound caused by Sectumsempra, permanent scarring and impaired movement." That is what my ledger says. It was signed by me and countersigned by all four Heads of House. We cannot stop this, and we cannot leave, because Merlin knows what would happen to the children if we did, but I have recorded everything. If we win ... no, when we win, because we must ... I have records of every foul act carried out by the Carrows and by the bullying thugs they call "The Inquisitorial Squad".

I filled more pages of my ledger in the first term than I filled in the whole of last year, and last year was not easy, either. Albus dead by the hand of the man who is now our Headmaster and two pupils almost killed, one by curse, one by poison. And the boy responsible for those outrages was rewarded by being made Head Boy.

'That is the thirty-second child you have brought to me this year and the twelfth you have permanently scarred,' I told Amycus. He seems to be completely unaware that I am keeping a record.

'Why do you care?' Amycus Carrow asked me when he delivered Carter to me. 'It's not as if they're your kids; you ain't got no kids.' "You ain't got no kids?" This man is supposed to be a Professor, and he can barely speak, never mind teach. It is obvious that Amycus Carrow has no idea what the word Matron means. It means that while they are at school, I am their mother. I have hundreds of children, and I care for them all to the best of my ability. I soothe their aches, heal their cuts and put right whatever little magical accidents they may have. Minerva understands this; the Carrows cannot.

Minerva is long gone - she is in the Great Hall preparing to defend her school, my school, our school.

The double doors open, and Irma Pince enters.

'Good evening, Poppy.' She greets me with a pinch-faced and thin lipped smile. 'I doubt that the library will be busy tonight, so I thought that I would offer you my assistance.' I can see the anxiety in her face; our home is about to be attacked, and neither of us are fighters.

'I'm very much afraid that I'll need it,' I admit. And, for the first time, a sense of foreboding overwhelms me. I have, unfortunately, seen students die before now. But tonight I fear that I'll see more than ever before.

'I'll make us some tea, shall I?' Irma suggests. 'Best get something to drink now...' She stops. Neither of us can finish that sentence. We silently agree that neither of us will speak the words "...because we may not have time later." - that way, perhaps, we will be able to spend a quiet night doing nothing but drinking tea and gossiping.

'Have you seen them?' Irma asks when she brings the tray into my office. 'Have you seen the troublemakers, the saviours? Potter, Weasley and Granger.'

'No, and I hope that I don't,' I tell the Librarian. 'But if I don't, then it will be the first time since they started school that I haven't had at least one of them in my ward.'

Irma smiles ruefully at my observation and we sit in silence, sipping tea and watching the clock on the wall. When it reaches midnight, there is a loud explosion and the castle wall shakes. It has begun. I wonder whether, if we fail, the Death Eaters will respect the sanctuary of the ward. I fear that I know the answer. Even St. Mungo's is short-staffed, because almost one quarter of their Healers were Muggle-born and have been dismissed as "unfit to practice." These Death Eaters respect nothing, no one.

I stand and check my stock cupboards for a final time: Blood Replenishing Potion, Skele-Gro; I tick item after item off my list.

It is only fifteen minutes past midnight when the first bed is occupied. Irma opens my ledger and makes the first entry while I treat Shirley Bramfitt, a Ravenclaw sixth year. She has been clubbed by a troll and has multiple fractures, but it is nothing that I can't deal with.

That will come later.


	2. Galleon

**Galleon**

I don't know why I kept it.

I think that, at first, it was simply as a reminder of my foolish sixth year crush.

If I'm honest, it was a memento of one of my foolish sixth year crushes. That was me - sixteen and stupid. Now I'm nineteen, but am I any wiser? Perhaps not, but perhaps that's a good thing, because if I hadn't kept it, I'd never had discovered what was going on.

It was a token, a sad symbol, a remembrance of what might have been. But last summer, the messages started again. At first, I did not even notice; the Galleon was tucked away at the back of my underwear drawer, forgotten and ignored. When I was clearing out my room, before moving into my flat last November, I noticed that there was a new message on it.

I kept it with me after that, not doing anything, simply feeling its occasional heat and reading the words whenever they changed. That was when I began wondering what was going on and who these mysterious messages were for. Some were obviously within, and about, the school. But not all of them.

I worked in the Muggle-liaison Office; in those days, it was hard and undervalued work. I could see the hurt we were inflicting on unsuspecting Muggles, and I was working to cover it up, because even some of the most bigoted fools at the Ministry realised that breaching the International Statute of Secrecy would not be a good idea. Our neighbours had not interfered, but everyone knew that if we breached international law, if we breached the statute, they would. Some, I am sure, were simply waiting to see if the Muggle-haters would win. I often wondered how many other nations would follow the lead of "The British Experiment" and how many would fight against it. This British problem could have consumed the world, and I knew that I could not let that happen.

In December, not long after I'd moved out, Umbridge's Commission came for my mum. Things were so bad, both at work and at my parents' house, that I could no longer ignore what was happening. I decided to write a message myself. It took me several days to work out exactly how to do it. I finally succeeded a week before Christmas.

"How can I help?" I wrote.

"Who?" the reply came back within the hour.

"CC", I wrote, not wanting to give too much away until I knew who I was talking to.

"CC: Victoria/Victoria Line North noon", was the response that evening.

So, at noon the following day, I was nervously standing on the northbound platform of Victoria Underground station. I was wearing my best Muggle business suit and trying to blend in, which wasn't difficult because my mum is Muggle-born (or simply "Muggle," under her new Ministry classification). She gave up her wand in order to protect Dad and me, and Granddad paid a huge fine to keep her out of Azkaban.

I stood on the platform, not knowing what to expect. I certainly didn't expect what actually happened. Someone stepped up behind me and grabbed my arm. I was taken from the platform by Side-Along Apparition. I didn't even get the chance to see who had grabbed me.  
We arrived on the side of a windswept hill. It was blowing a gale; a few flakes of snow flurried around me and the wind whistled wildly. I shivered and stumbled - a pinstripe jacket and skirt were no protection from the wind, and my heels were sinking into the grass.

I turned and finally discovered who my abductor was. It was one of the Gryffindor Chasers, Katie. She had her wand trained at me. I was surrounded by four other people, all wearing Shield Cloaks and Headless Hats, and all pointing wands at me.

'Where are we?' I asked.

'North side of Skiddaw, if you must know. And don't try to Apparate, because you can't,' Katie said; she pronounced the name of the hill as "Skidder."

Skiddaw? I was none the wiser, but I nodded anyway. I later discovered that I'd been in Cumbria. It was cold, wet and bleak.

'We knew you weren't Colin Creevey,' Katie announced, 'because we know where he is. Sorry for the abduction, but we need to be sure that you are who you claim to be. So prove it.'

'Prove what?'

'That you're Cho Chang, not someone using Polyjuice and a stolen Galleon,' said a deep male voice I did not recognise. The Headless Hats added a sense of bizarre unreality to the encounter. Joke-shop items used to disguise identity - ironic, I thought.

'How?' I asked.

Katie rolled her eyes, and I suddenly remembered Harry's DA lessons.  
'My Patronus is a swan. Harry taught us the spell, and I've never cast it since the DA lessons, so only the DA would know that,' I told her as I shivered.

That was a start, but Katie asked me a lot more questions before finally accepting me. As soon as they were satisfied that I was who I claimed to be, they gave me my first job.

There was one missing Galleon, and they wanted me to get it. Every DA member was now accounted for apart from Harry, Ron, Hermione and Dean Thomas. They had found Dean's Galleon at his mother's house and retrieved it. The only "spare" Galleon belonged to Marietta Edgecombe, and they wanted me to get it.

I told them that Marietta was my friend, and that she wouldn't betray us. But Katie wouldn't believe me, nor would any of the others.

 

I called on Marietta that evening. The pimples on her face were faded, but were still visible, if you knew where to look under her heavy make-up.

She seemed pleased to see me, and we chatted and gossiped like the old friends we were for over an hour. Finally, I asked the question.

'Marietta, do you remember the Galleon that we got when we joined the DA?' I asked.

Her hand made an involuntary movement up towards the pimples, and I realised that I'd started the conversation badly. She looked at me in disbelief.

'How could I forget?' she asked. It was as if a door had suddenly blown open. The warmth between us was replaced by an icy chill; the atmosphere in that room seemed to be even colder than on that bleak snow-swept hillside. 'Why do you want to know?'

'Do you still have it?' I asked.

'Why would I keep that thing?' she asked. She was suddenly hostile. I could see suspicion and fear in her eyes. I wondered if Katie had been right to be worried. Marietta ... Marietta had betrayed us before, I realised; not just Harry, all of us, even me. I'd defended her, afterwards, but I was supposed to be her best friend, yet she had gone behind my back to Umbridge. I wasn't certain what to do or what to say next. This time it wouldn't be detentions; peoples' lives were at stake. I suddenly understood why Katie had asked me.

'I'd like you to give it to me,' I said. I was struck by an inspiration. 'The jinx that Granger put on the Galleons is still active, so you'd best not lie to me,' I warned her. Although in fact I had no idea whether it was. I tried to keep my voice friendly, but I saw her face and knew immediately that the trust between us was broken, probably forever.

'They're using it,' Marietta said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. She knew, so she'd been reading the messages. I nodded.

'You haven't told anyone, have you?' I asked. She shook her head and again rubbed her pimples.  
'Will you fetch it for me, please?' She didn't reply, she simply walked over to the table, picked up her purse, opened it and threw a Galleon at me. I wasn't expecting such a violent action and the Galleon caught me just under my left eye. I wasn't even close to catching it; it's no wonder no one wanted me as a professional Seeker. With tears in my eyes, I picked up the Galleon and read the latest message. It was about a DA meeting at Hogwarts.  
'Get out, and don't come back,' Marietta told me, her voice a harsh whisper. I did, and I have not seen her since. I sent her a Christmas card, but she didn't send me one in return.

 

For four months, I have worked for the resistance. I do what I can to help from my lowly paid job within the Ministry. With enchanted Galleons and messages on beer mats passed along by another DA member, a blonde barmaid who no one pays any attention to (apart from for the obvious reasons). My friends and I plot and plan and carry out our acts of defiance.

Sometimes they are big, like the mass release of all of those Muggle-borns in Cardiff. Sometimes they are small, like the anti-Voldemort graffiti. Throw one of the Weasley twins "truth-bombs" at Harry's wanted poster and it transforms the words "Undesirable Number One" into "Desirable Number One," complete with a flashing pink heart surrounding his face. It's nothing more than a simple, magically-guided paint-ball, and people (me included) are taking them into the Ministry. Someone managed to get one into Umbridge's office last week. She was furious, but it's her fault for coming up with such a ridiculous name for Harry. Though I don't suppose he'll like the twin's alternative, either.

Since Christmas this Galleon has taken me to places I never imagined; it has led me into danger for months, and now it is doing so again. I look down at the still-warm gold coin in my hand; the message reads: "He's at Hogwarts. We're fighting. Hog's Head Inn". It's from Neville Longbottom, an even less likely hero than I am. There is no doubt who "He" is; the elusive Harry Potter has turned up at last. I concentrate on that dingy pub where we first met and Disapparate. I arrive in the empty bar.

'Upstairs,' the barman says grumpily, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. I reach the upstairs room in time to see Lee Jordan climbing through a portrait. I hear others behind me, too, so I hurry through this strange secret passage and into my old school.

'I got the message,'* I tell everyone as I look around the room. Harry looks astonished. He looks careworn and skinny and older than his years, too. But he's still rather cute.

Ginny Weasley is watching me. She went out with Harry for a few weeks last year, but they finished when Professor Dumbledore was killed. Harry can be so moody and intense that it's difficult to like him, but I still do. I spot Michael and his friends, so I go and sit with them and listen while they make plans.

Harry is looking for something to help him defeat Voldemort, but he won't tell us what. All is confusion, but Harry is, as usual, flanked by Ron and Hermione, and Ron seems to be giving him advice. For some reason, Harry is interested in the Ravenclaw Diadem. As usual, Luna Lovegood goes off at a fanciful tangent until Michaels shuts her up. I volunteer to take Harry to our common room and I stand to lead the way. But Ginny, rather forcefully, suggests that Luna do it!

He's not your property now, Ginny - he finished with you, I think. But Harry looks eagerly at Luna, not me, so I sit down and try not to look disappointed. I wanted to show him how much I've changed, but it appears that he'd rather be with Luna Lovegood than with Cho Chang.


	3. Great to be Back

**Great to be Back**

I have decided that, in the circumstances we now find ourselves, bad is not a good word to use .

As I run towards the Great Hall, hand in hand with Dean Thomas, I consider the many and contrary definitions of the word “bad”. “Bad” is extremely imprecise; it means too many things. This is why bad is not good.

Years ago Harry told me that the people who took my things and hid them were bad. He was being imprecise, but Harry does not always think clearly.

Food can turn bad.

People can turn bad, too, but people do not rot and decompose and smell when they are bad. It would be helpful if they did.

I remember that strange encounter in Ravenclaw Tower which took place only a few minutes ago. I realise that my last thought was imprecise, too. Alecto and Amycus Carrow are bad, and they smell bad. So some bad people smell bad, but some, Draco Malfoy for example, don’t. I wonder why this should be.

The world is a very complicated, and usually very beautiful, place. Even bad smells serve a purpose. If it smells bad, don’t eat it, Daddy once told me while I was vomiting. That was good advice. Daddy’s advice is usually very good, though it seems that even Daddy can do bad things.

Trying to sell Harry to the Death Eaters in exchange for me, was that good, or bad? He wanted to free me, and that is a good thing, but Harry would have probably died, and that is a bad thing. The world is definitely a very complicated place.

Evil is a good word, when used correctly. I decide to consider “evil”.

In my experience, most people like to be alive and, as an obvious corollary, do not want to be dead. When threatened most people will fight for their lives, just as we are about to do.

If most people like to be alive, then it seems obvious that taking the gift of life from them is wrong. This, I think, is evil. No one with whom I have discussed this subject has disagreed with me about this. Everyone I know believes that, were someone to deliberately take their life, then the life-taker would be evil. Some people, however, believe that there may, sometimes, be justification for taking a life. After much consideration, I think that I disagree. Deliberately killing someone is wrong; it is an evil act. I am a witch, and so I can prevent people from doing evil things without doing evil things myself.

Voldemort kills without compunction. He is certainly evil and so are many of his followers. Most people are frightened of Voldemort. I wonder if he thinks that this is a good thing, because it is not. I spent months in the cellar of Malfoy Manor. I know that Draco Malfoy and his parents are terrified of Voldemort and so is Mr Ollivander. Almost everyone is. People do what Voldemort wants because they are frightened of what would happen to them if they did not.

No one likes Voldemort; he has no friends. He must be very lonely. Voldemort, it seems to me, thinks that fear is enough to control people. It is, sometimes, but fear will not work forever.

Frightened creatures form herds for defence, because there is strength in numbers. Sometimes the herds stampede, and when there is a stampede, even large and dangerous predators can get trampled to the ground. I think that this is what is happening now, and I think that Voldemort does not realise this. Our herd of herbivores does not have to be stronger than his pack of predators; it simply has to be bigger. And our herd is increasing in size because Voldemort is making more and more people frightened. Voldemort is very foolish to make so many people frightened of him.

I know that people call me Loopy Loony Luna, and that they think that I am harmless. No one is frightened of me, but they should be. They should remember that a Crumple-Horned Snorkack is harmless unless its home or family is threatened. They should remember that Hogwarts is my home and it really is great to be back and I will defend this place. They should realise that my friends are here, that almost everyone I love is here.

I know what it feels like to be imprisoned by evil people. I spent weeks in that cell remembering everything that Harry taught us. I know what I am capable of, and I know that people should be afraid of me. I am very glad that they are not, because then I would have no friends and I would be lonely. I do not like to be lonely.

No one is frightened of Harry, either. They should be very frightened of Harry Potter. I have seen him sad, I have seen him happy, I have seen him angry, and I know that he will not give up. Voldemort has attacked Harry for seven years. Every time Voldemort has attacked he has been defeated, and every time Harry has become stronger. There is a lesson to be learned there, and I wonder why Voldemort has not learned it. People say that Voldemort is a very powerful wizard. But he is also very stupid; he does not understand people. Voldemort simply demands that his supporters fight.

Harry rescued me from a dungeon because he wants his friends to be safe. The Death Eaters are here because they have been ordered to be here. We are here because we want to be here, because Harry is our friend, and because we are all frightened of Lord Voldemort.

I realise that my grip on Dean’s hand has been getting tighter and tighter. We reach the Great Hall, so I release Dean’s hand and he releases mine. He joins his fellow Gryffindors, who all seem pleased to see him. I take my place with the other Ravenclaws – they seem surprised, rather than pleased. One, a boy called Nigel, asks me what I am doing here.

That is an extremely imprecise question.

I consider telling him that I am rationalising my philosophy on evil, which is a correct answer. It is not, I think, what he wants to know.

‘I am here to help Harry, because he is my friend,’ I tell him. ‘We are going to fight Voldemort, because he is evil.’

‘As loony as ever,’ Nigel snorts.

‘As honest as ever,’ Terry Boot says in his big deep gruff voice. Terry has black hair and big ears and Ginny says that his face looks like he ran, very fast, into a wall when he was little. Ginny’s description is strangely accurate. Terry is very tall and very wide, and he looms over Nigel.

Nigel looks at big looming Terry, turns pale, and sits down without saying anything else.

‘Good answer, Luna,’ says Terry, winking at me.

I wonder if I should ask Terry what it is like to be able to loom. I cannot loom; I am much too small to be able to loom.

But now is not the time as Professor McGonagall wishes to speak. She is an extremely intelligent woman and deserves my full attention.  



	4. Protheroe's Perspective

**Protheroe's Perspective**

He's a really good looking guy.

He's tall, with spiky black hair and broad shoulders. Like me, he's wearing a sleeveless black t-shirt. His bears a grinning white skull; mine has a classic old photo of Siouxsie at her finest. I've been admiring his tattoo, an intricate pattern of Celtic knot-work on his shoulder and upper arm. Now it's his turn to admire mine.

'Nice dragon,' he yells over the pounding bass.

'It's a Hebridean Black,' I tell him proudly. I am safe in the knowledge that he has no idea that the tattoo covering the length of my right arm, from the snarling jaws at my wrist to the tail tip on my shoulder blade, is taken from a photograph of a real dragon. He strokes my arm in admiration then slips his arm around my waist - I've scored - my night is made!

That's when the lynx Patronus arrives.

'Potter's at Hogwarts. Snake-face is on his way. _Potterwatch_ is broadcasting a call to arms. Our agents are taking control of the Floo Network. We're establishing a beachhead at the Cauldron. Now!'

I'll say this for Kingsley Shacklebolt: he can pack a lot of information into very few words. But, bloody hell, his timing is terrible! I look around the pub. It's packed, but - other than my slack-jawed conquest - no one appears to have noticed the arrival and disappearance of a talking silver lynx.

From the way his Patronus was flickering, I guess that Kingsley sent the message to every Auror who isn't in Azkaban, and also to the Order of the Phoenix. The DA kids probably already know. For months, these various groups have been almost indistinguishable; we all work together. The Ministry and The Prophet call us "terrorists" and "subversives". Most people call us The Resistance.

I look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. The sides of my head are shaved; I want a tattoo there, too. My hair is a black-dyed spiky Mohawk, my face is covered by white pancake, black and purple mascara, and violet lipstick. In addition to the Siouxsie t-shirt, I'm wearing a calf length indigo skirt, fishnets and Doc Martens. In this outfit, I have the words "Muggle-born" written all over me. I'll make a really good target for the Death Eaters, but there's no time to remove the make-up and change into robes.

I grab the good-looking guy's shoulders and give him a snog; his still open mouth is an easy target, and he responds enthusiastically. I reluctantly push him away, elbow my way through the crowds to the ladies' loo, find a cubicle, and Disapparate.

Merlin knows what will happen now. He may be the last guy I ever kiss, and his world might end not long after mine does.

Bollocks, I didn't even get his name or a phone number.

oooOOOooo

There's a narrow alley off Charing Cross Road which has no security cameras and is usually deserted (this is entirely due to the Muggle-repelling charms on it). When I arrive, there are two young men - two very young men - in the alley. They have their arms around each other. One is in his late teens and about my height; he has curly brown hair and he's wearing Armani (I think) slacks and a very expensive looking shirt. I should pay more attention to ordinary Muggle fashions. The other male looks to be about twelve years old and wears hiking boots, faded three-quarter-length shorts and a checked shirt of the sort worn by lovers of the countryside and outdoors. They spring apart when I arrive, and both draw wands. Fortunately, I recognise the older of the two boys.

'Polly Protheroe, Auror. You helped to relocate my parents, Justin,' I tell the curly-haired boy. He's one of the kids who call themselves "Dumbledore's Army", and like me he's a Muggle-born. His dad is very rich, and they have been working to relocate Muggle-born families. We all do our best to keep them out of the clutches of the Umbridge cow. He looks at me and finally recognises me. I didn't have the Mohawk when we met, but he's staring at my arm, and he recognises me because of the tattoo.

'That's the first time I've tried Side-Along Apparition,' Justin explains; he's blushing. I'd actually figured that out, but it was fun to stare at them with an expression which made them think that I was under the impression I'd caught them in a tryst.

'D'you know the Goth, Justin?' asks the little boy suspiciously. Justin nods.

'This is Colin Creevey, Polly,' Justin tells me. I curl my lip, and I'm about to make some snide comment about his age when Justin adds. 'You've heard of him. He's "Seas".'

I look at the weedy little boy with respect. This five foot two of skin and bone is the person the DA kids refer to only as "Codename Seas"; he's the finest forger in the resistance. His documents have got me - Polyjuiced, of course - into the Ministry on several occasions. And much more importantly, they've got me out again. They got me, and a hell of a lot of others, out of the Cardiff Law Office cells, too.

'I thought that you'd be older,' I tell him.

'I'm almost seventeen,' he says. I find that difficult to believe - thirteen, fourteen, at a pinch.

'Nice to meet you, Col,' I say. 'So, are we all off to kick some Death Eater arse?'

The kid grins nervously. He's scared witless, but he's going anyway.

'Harry needs us,' he says, holding up a gold galleon.

We stride out from the alley and along Charing Cross Road to the Leaky Cauldron. Unsurprisingly, people stare at us. We make an extremely odd trio, me, the toff, and the ten-year-old (in my mind he's getting younger, not older). We're so mismatched that we'd probably be less conspicuous if we were all in robes. The curious Muggles lose interest only when they lose sight of us as we enter the pub.

The place is packed; a short plump and harmless-looking middle-aged witch sits next to the door, she's knitting. I recognise her immediately; Phillipa Fortescue is one of the cleverest Aurors I know. She's obviously been given guard duty and despite her apparent disinterest, I'm certain that she's seeing everything. I realise that she's using her wand as one of the knitting needles and I grin at her. She nods towards the centre of the bar where dozens of witches and wizards are forming an orderly queue in front of the fire and stepping into the green flames.

'Robards has a team in the Floo Network Authority Office,' Phillipa says conversationally. 'The entire network is closed, apart from this one link, which is for our side only.'

Robards is a tough old git; I wonder who's with him in the Ministry, and how long they'll be able to keep this connection open. I'm about to ask, but I'm distracted when the newest and youngest barmaid in the pub, Hannah, I think she's called, runs over and kisses Justin.

'We're the last of the Army. Where's Dennis?' she asks.

'I stunned him; he's only fifteen, he's too young to fight,' Colin tells her. I sigh; this midget thinks that fifteen is too young, but sixteen isn't. I wonder who Dennis is.

We join the back of the queue, wands drawn, ready for anything.

'D'you three actually know Potter?' I ask the kids.

'Yes,' they chorus.

'Can he do it?' I ask.

'I bloody well hope so, otherwise us Muggle-borns are dead meat,' Colin says. I nod at the truth of his words.

Merlin, help me! I'm with an army of children, and I'm going to a school to fight a monster who, if the rumours are correct, can only be killed by one particular seventeen-year-old.

Then I realise something else.

'When's the last time that you cast an actual spell?' I ask Colin. 'Apart from Stunning this Dennis kid, obviously?'

'Last year at school, ten months ago. It's a good job that potion making, photography and developing don't register on the trace, or else I'd have been completely useless,' the skinny little youth admits.

'Can you fight?' I demand.

'Harry taught us,' he tells me proudly, puffing out his scrawny chest.

I can tell by his eyes that he thinks that is enough. It isn't. I know it isn't, but I can't bring myself to tell these worried-looking kids the truth. We won't use Unforgiveable Curses, but they will. We will stun and bind and capture. They will kill. I wonder how many of the four of us will see the dawn.

Then we're into the fire and out at the Hog's Head and following the train of people through a secret passage and into the school.

Kingsley spots me when I arrive and beckons me over. He's a good looking guy, too, I think. He frowns, and I wonder if he's a Legilimens. Perhaps I should think naughty thoughts.

'We need to find out what we're up against,' he says.

'The Dork Lord, Snake Face, You-Know-Who,' I tell him, though I know that's not what he's saying. I also know that he's not my boss, and so does he. He isn't going to give me an order.

'D'you want me to go outside and scout?' my mouth asks him before I can stop it. He nods.

Crap! I've just volunteered myself for a dangerous mission. I wish I knew how Kingsley does that. He just looks at me and waits, and I volunteer, every bloody time.

Someone's got to scout the place, I remind myself, and I came top in the Stealth and Tracking part of the course during Auror Training. Of course, there were only two other people taking the exam with me; Dopey Dominic Strang and Butterfingers Tonks.

I disillusion myself and head out into the grounds and look around. It's not good.

On their side, they have giants and trolls and Dementors and some of the nastiest criminals ever to be broken out of Azkaban. They are being led by a man who cannot, according to all the evidence we have, be killed.

On our side, we've got the battered remains of the Auror office, a motley collection of shopkeepers, office workers, teachers and children. And we're here to help a boy who should really be in his last year of school.

So, it's a pretty even contest, then.

I'm out in the grounds for over an hour, and I manage to get back safely just as old snake-face makes the windows rattle with his lies and threats.

Kingsley and McGonagall are busy evacuating the school. They are sending the pupils to safety when I give them my report.

Safety?

If we lose this fight, nowhere will be safe.

There is no sign of the great saviour Potter. He has "something to do," and he's "following Dumbledore's orders," apparently.

I don't want to die, but, really, what choice do I have? I have seen the faces of the frightened, determined, children. If they're of age, they can stay, because McGonagall can't make them leave. They are seventeen and they think that they are all grown up. Fools! At least that means that little Colin, the sixteen-year-old forger, has been sent home.

Kingsley organises us into groups of four. We will be going back outside to fight.

I'm teamed with another Auror, Cuthbert Cleverley. I never really liked the man, a snooty pureblood. He's now a grandfather, he tells me proudly as we make our way outside. He's never seen his grandson he says, showing more regret - and humanity - than I ever saw from him in the Auror Office. He can't, because his son's house is being watched. Being a Pureblood doesn't guarantee safety, not if you're an Auror, not these days. Now, the dark wizards are the government and dark wizard catchers like us are wanted fugitives. This madness has to end!

There are two more members of my squad. I look at Bill Weasley carefully. Though he's now scarred of face, I somehow still manage to see the dashing head boy I had a crush on when I was fifteen. He doesn't recognise me or acknowledge me. Why should he?

He's a git!

His wife is with him, and she's a few years younger and a hell of a lot prettier than I am! She's called Fleur, it's a name I take an instant dislike to.

She's a cow!

By the look of her, his wife should be in her boudoir brushing her hair or polishing her nails before lying languidly on a chaise longue. Instead she stands by his side, pale and determined and so annoyingly beautiful that I have to fight to see her properly through the green mist of jealousy. No one ought to look so stunning just before a battle. I'll have to keep a close eye on her.

The trolls and giants come first.

There's a technique to attacking them - spells bounce off so you have to be indirect. A good technique is to levitate their weapons out of their hands and use the club or axe they invariably carry against them. It's what Aurors are trained to do, but not many other people are clever enough to think of that the first time they face a troll.

Bill and Fleur are good!

I've been concentrating on watching them and a troll has sneaked up behind me. Cleverley pulls the swinging club from the troll's grip and flicks it into the face of a giant. It's a good move; the giant is so stupid that he thinks the troll threw the club at him deliberately. We leave the troll and giant to fight each other and not us. I smile my thanks to my fellow Auror and he's smiling back at me when I hear a male voice shout "Avada Kedavra". A green beam shoots out of the darkness and strikes Cleverley on his side. His legs fold and, still smiling, he falls into an untidy pile on the lawn.

I blast several spells in the direction of the spell which felled Cleverley. I dash towards him and quickly examine him. It does not take me more than a moment to discover that now Cuthbert Cleverley will never see his grandson. There is no sign of the Death Eater who killed him and I realise that, in the darkness, I've become separated from Bill and Fleur.

It is very dark, but not too dark for me to spot two giants approaching the school building. Two figures are crouched behind rubble firing off spells at them. The giants are holding their stone axes behind them and spells simply bounce off their hides. Clever giants! What next? The giants begin to swing their axes towards the two trapped figures so I Vanish a section of ground under them. They stumble and their swings go wide. Two figures to scurry towards me. Tonks and Colin Creevey.

'Wotcher, Polly, mate. Thanks. You saved our lives there,' says Tonks. She's grinning as she greets me.

'Wotcher, yourself, Tonksie. What are you doing here? Haven't you got a baby to nurse?' I ask as we use our wands to snatch the stone axes from the still staggering giants and start trying to counterattack. Colin scowls; he obviously thinks that I'm talking about him.

'Got a husband here, too,' she tells me simply.

'Tonks has a new baby! And you shouldn't be here either, Colin,' I say. He just grins. He's flicking stones and earth into the giants faces using nothing more than a simple levitation spell. That distracts the flat-faced behemoths and gives Tonks and me the chance to lift the stone axes high into the air and bring them crashing down hard on the giants' ugly heads. My giant crashes against the castle wall; Tonks' falls forwards, towards both her and Colin. I cast a shield spell and push my fellow fighters out from underneath the collapsing unconscious giant.

'Saved you both again,' I say. Those are my last words before my world turns to pain and blackness.

oooOOOooo

When I wake, I'm in St Mungo's. A Healer hurries over to my bedside when I begin to curse and swear.

'Who won?' I croak.

'We did, Harry Potter did,' the Healer tells me. It was a stupid question I realise. I'm a Muggle-born Auror, had we lost I'd be in Azkaban, or more likely, I'd simply never have woken up.

'What happened?'

'Potter killed L-lord V-voldemort,' she says. That's not what I wanted to know, she's told me that we won, so Snake Face must be dead.

'What happened to me?' I clarify my question.

'The report says that someone knocked a giant into the castle wall and part of the battlement fell and landed on you. You must've got a Shield Charm up, otherwise you'd be dead. You suffered multiple fractures, and you weren't found until after the first battle was over. You're lucky to be alive.'

I smile. I almost killed myself! I don't remember casting a Shield Charm; it must've been either little Colin or Tonks. The first battle! How many battles were there? How long was I out?

'Are Colin Creevey and Tonks, dammit Lupin - Nymphadora - whatever she calls herself these days - around?' I ask.

The Healer looks at a list and shakes her head.

'They are not in the hospital,' she says. Then she turns to a second list, I've never seen anyone's face turn white so quickly.

'Both?' I ask, horrified.

'I'm sorry...' is as far as she gets before I begin to cry.


	5. The Confession of Augusta Longbottom

**The Confession of Augusta Longbottom**

_"LONGBOTTOM (Oakenclough, Lancashire). Peacefully at home on January 15th, aged 96 years, Augusta (nee Malkin), beloved wife of Norman (died 1988) and_ _mother of Franc_ _i_ _s_ _. A_ _much loved, grandmother and great-grandmother. Augusta will be sadly missed by her grandson, Neville, by Hannah, and by her great grandchildren Florence and Norman Longbottom."_ (cutting from The Daily Prophet, Obituaries).

Professor Neville Longbottom (Order of Merlin, first class), Head of Gryffindor House, reread the obituary notice and brushed a tear from his cheek. Neville sat at the desk in his private study in the attic of the Leaky Cauldron. The room, like his office at Hogwarts, was an untidy clutter of photographs, awards, and plants. He opened the plain wooden box which currently had pride of place on his desk. The box was labelled simply "Gran" and he carefully placed the notice within it. He then turned his attention to the two other letters in front of him.

He reread the most recent letter first. It was dated only two weeks before his grandmother's death and was written not with her usual spidery scrawl but with the bold strokes of an AutoQuill Dictation Deluxe; the quill he had bought her for Christmas. She had been complaining for months that she could no longer hold a quill steadily enough to write legibly.

_Dear Neville,_

_You have grown into a fine young_ (Neville smiled at the word "young" - he was forty-seven years old, and though he did not consider that to be old, he knew that his children did.) _man with a good wife and two wonderful children._

_Now that your father, my dear Frank, has followed his beloved Alice beyond the Veil, I find myself weary. I have a grandson and two great-grandchildren, but you do not need me the way my poor Frank and Alice did._

_Your parents are finally gone and_ _,_ _in a way, I am glad. Despite our visits over all those years, they recognised neither you, nor your family, nor me. Perhaps now is the time for you to throw out all of the sweet-wrappers Alice gave you. I suspect that you won't_ _. Y_ _ou have inherited that sentimental streak from your mother, I am certain._

_I have never given you the credit you deserve, and I apologise for that. My great-grandchildren Florence (I do wish that you wouldn't call her Flossie) and Norman (your grandfather would thank you for using his name) are wonderful children, a gift to me and to you. You, and they, have made me proud. I am especially pleased that Florence has decided to follow your parents (and even you, for those few years) into the Auror Office. I do hope that the Weasley boy she is seeing does not distract her from her chosen career._

_I rewrite this letter every year, and every year I wonder if it will be the last time. Over the years, the contents have changed. The great-granddaughter I first praised you for eighteen years ago is now a young adult with her life ahead of her, and next year, if I survive to rewrite this letter, her brother, too, will have passed into adulthood._

_I am proud of you all. You are more than I hoped, more than I expected, and more than I deserved._ _It is true that y_ _our career as an Auror was shorter than I would have liked, but as I think back, you achieved so much in those few short years, and I_ _was foolish to criticise your decision. I_ _am certain that your parents would be proud of the fact that their son is_ _now_ _Head of Gryffindor House._

_This makes my final task all the more difficult. I must apologise for the contents of the attached letter. You have always been a good and dutiful grandson and now, I fear, I must let you down. Please forgive me._

_Your Gran,_

_Augusta Longbottom_

Neville pulled out his wand and, slowly and very carefully erased the final paragraph from his grandmother's letter. Refolding it, he then returned it to the envelope from which it had come, the envelope marked: "Neville: to be opened only in the event of my death."

Having edited the letter, he turned his attention to the other piece of correspondence. The second letter was written on age-yellowed parchment, It had been attached to the letter he had just altered, but was dated 5 May, 1998, almost thirty years ago.

_My Dear Neville,_

_If you are reading this letter, then I am dead. Whether this is days, or years, after I write it, I cannot know, but please do not cry for me._

_I have never been more proud of you than I am today. Your parents, too, would be proud if only they could understand what has happened. You are a hero, and you deserve a medal. I, on the other hand, am nothing more than a foolish and vengeful old woman._ _My pride in your achievements makes it so much harder for me to write this. I did a terrible thing during the battle, and I shall carry the guilt of it with me for_ _the rest of my days_ _._

_I saw little of you during the first part of that battle. I shall, however,_ _always_ _treasure the memory of your brave defiance of Voldemort._

_When I arrived at the castle, your friend Harry Potter told me that you were fighting. I assumed that you would be outside with the other defenders. As I discovered much later, you were helping Pomona Sprout collect plants from the greenhouse. I must say that your use of plants to defend the castle was very clever._

_I looked for you in the grounds. It was chaotic, with_ _t_ _rolls,_ _g_ _iants and Death Eaters everywhere. I was near the Forbidden Forest when I saw a green flash off to one side. I saw someone fall (it was, I discovered later, an Auror named Cuthbert Cleverley. He was a_ _good_ _friend of your father's). His companion, an oddly dressed young woman, cast Reductor and Blasting curses towards the person who had killed Cleverley, though obviously she could not see him._

_Her blasts drove Cleverley's killer from his hiding place, and I saw him run into the forest. I recognised him immediately. It was Rodolphus Lestrange, so, of course, I set off after him._

_I am not as young as I was, and I thought it very unlikely that I would be able to catch him, but the chance for revenge spurred me onwards. I followed him deeper and deeper into the forest, simply trying to keep him within sight._

_I almost lost him. He was getting further and further ahead of me, but he suddenly turned and began running back, almost towards me. I soon saw why. Someone was blasting trees deep in the forest and was herding dozens of Acromantula towards the school. Rodolphus was in their way._

_I waited until he got closer to me and I Stunned him._

_It was a cowardly attack; he had no idea that I was there and he had no chance to defend himself. But the man was such a tempting target, and my dander was up. Having Stunned him, I cast the Incarcerous spell on him._

_Then, however, I did something I am ashamed of._

_I did nothing._

_I had the opportunity to remove Rodolphus Lestrange from the path of the Acromantula, but I did not. Instead, I hid myself and watched as one of the creatures picked him up and sucked the life from him. I watched him die without remorse, and I even (to my shame) considered removing my Stunning Spell so that I could hear him scream._

_I did not, however, stoop that low._

_Nevertheless, I brought you up to do the right thing, Neville. I am certain that you would have been stronger than me, that you would have saved Rodolphus Lestrange from the horrible fate I allowed to befall him._

_His body was found and identified after the battle, and now only his brother Rabastan remains at large. I have no doubt that you will capture him._

('We did, Gran, but as you know, he died too,' Neville whispered.)

_I am sorry to pass the burden of my guilt on to you. I_ _cannot_ _confess my crime_ _as it will bring shame to the proud name of_ _Noble and Most Ancient House of_ _Longbottom_ _. Now you must decide what to do with this knowledge._

_Please forgive me._

_Yours,_

_Gran_

Neville wiped the tears from his eyes and, with shaking hands picked up his wand again. Conjuring a silver bowl he placed the letter in it.

'Incendio,' he said. He watched the letter burn to ash. Finally, when nothing remained but curls of grey powder Neville carefully Vanished even that unreadable residue, leaving no trace of his grandmother's confession.

Closing the box marked Gran he put it in the bottom drawer of his desk and picked up the envelope containing the other letter. He walked out of his study to greet his waiting family.

'Well?' Hannah asked. Neville handed the remaining letter, the one he had so carefully edited, to his wife.

'Gran just wanted us to know that she was proud of us all, especially Trainee Auror Florence Longbottom,' said Neville. He could see from the concerned expression on his wife's round face that Hannah knew that there was more. He would have to tell her, but not now, not in front of the kids. He changed the subject.

'What time is that ginger lad you're going out with coming to collect you, Floss-pot?' Neville asked his daughter.

'Never, ever call me Floss-pot, Dad,' she said, 'I'm not three anymore. It's Flossie, or Florence, if you must. If you ever use that name in front of Hugo, I'll ... I'll ... I'll...'

'Stammer a lot?' her younger brother asked. Flossie glared at him. Neville looked at his daughter's annoyed expression and hid a smile. In many ways Florence was remarkably like her late great-grandmother, but he knew that was a truth she would not want to hear.

'Hugo will be here in half an hour, Dad; we need to get back to Auror training. Did I tell you that they've made Al Potter our supervisor?

'It's more than twenty years since there was a team consisting of Aurors Potter, Weasley and Longbottom,' Neville observed, smiling. 'Gran was proud of you, and I'm proud of you ... and I'm proud of her.'


	6. Good Bones

**Good Bones**

When we returned to school after Christmas, Michael Corner tried to ask me to go out with him; at least, I think that's what he was doing. He told me that I have good bones, which I think was his way of telling me that he finds me attractive.

I wonder if he really does like me? After all, every one of his previous girlfriends has been short, and curvy. I am neither, I am six inches taller than both Ginny Weasley and Cho Chang. 

Although I am not as tall as he is, . When I was fourteen, Aunt Amelia told me that all boys lie, and that any girl who thinks that love can change a man is a fool. We are in the middle of a war and Michael, it seemed, was only interested in finding a girl to kiss. Well, it was not me, and it won't be.

'Seventeen years old and never been kissed,' he suggested, when I told him that I wasn't interested. He's wrong about that, but I was not going to admit that to him, and I certainly wasn't going to tell him who kissed me, despite his pestering. I don't suppose I'll ever tell anyone who it was: after all, even the boy who kissed me doesn't know who it was he kissed.

Michael was also making a joke about my name - Bones. Some people think that it sounds creepy, or even evil. When I was a little girl, I did not like my name, but then Aunt Amelia explained it to me.

Bones are necessary, Aunt Amelia used to say, everyone has bones. Besides, she told me, like many names, it may not mean what you think it does. It may simply mean bones, or bony, but it may be Anglo-Saxon, from "bain," or Norman-French, from "bon"; the former means tall and lean, the latter means good.

So, I am bony Susan, the tall, lean, and good. There are worse names, and there are worse things to be. Some of those "worse things" are now gathering outside the castle. The man who killed my great-aunt, Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, is coming here tonight to try to kill Harry Potter. He has brought his followers with him, and they will try to kill us all. Aunt Amelia died for what she believed in, and now I must be prepared to do the same.

The house tables in the Great Hall are filling rapidly. Most of the younger students are still in their night clothes. Many of the older ones are, like me, dressed. I look along the table at my fellow Hufflepuff students. The younger children look frightened; so do a lot of the older ones. But we've been frightened all year: obey the new rules, do not argue, and always be deferential to the pure-bloods. That is the way things are. If you cause trouble, or argue, or even look at someone the wrong way, you will be hurt. For months, there has been a surly resentment running through the school, and now it will probably explode.

At the other end of the Hufflepuff table, the end nearest to the teachers, Ernie Macmillan is also watching the students enter. Ernie has his chest puffed out, and he is wearing his Prefect's badge. As always, he wants to be important. Not necessarily in charge, because that means making decisions and Ernie isn't good at decisions, but certainly important.

"You wouldn't understand, being a half-blood," he told me patronisingly at the beginning of this year. "But we right-minded pure-bloods have a duty to look after half-bloods and Muggle-borns, to help them through these difficult times."

Ernie is a nice boy - he is honest, hardworking, and he means well. He would be horrified if I told him that he was prejudiced. But he is. His is the complicated prejudice of a pure-blood who is proud to have a half-blood and a Muggle-born as best friends, because to him it proves that he's not prejudiced.

I have discussed the future with Ernie many times this year. He wants 'equality' and he honestly and truly hates the injustices being heaped upon those, like me, whose 'blood is not pure.' But he does not fully understand, because, deep down, he believes that pure-bloods are better than the rest of us. He really does believe it is his duty to look after and care for half-bloods, like me, and Muggle-borns. He does not realise how condescending and patronising his view is.

Despite his flaws, Ernie is a good young man, and he tries his best to do what he knows is right. Aunt Amelia said, "Try not to argue with people who are on your side," so I don't argue with Ernie.

Ernie, I constantly remind myself, is a much better person than the Muggle-haters like Malfoy and his cronies. Malfoy believes that half-bloods are scum and that Muggle-borns are sub-human. At the beginning of the year, during his Head Boy speech, he said that the school smells much better without the Mudbloods, but that there is still a lingering stench to be removed. We half-bloods all knew what _that_ meant. Many more people than I'd suspected share those beliefs; there are even a number of them in my House. But Malfoy and his friends are the worst.

Malfoy has been nastier than ever this term, lashing out at the slightest provocation. Things must be really bad at home for him. According to Potterwatch his family are out of favour, because Harry was captured, but managed to escape from Malfoy Manor. Potterwatch claimed that Harry had rescued some prisoners from the manor, from right under the nose of the Malfoys and that You-Know-Who was not happy with the Malfoys. If it's true, then they are lucky to be alive.

Malfoy has lost his wand, too. The day he came back to school after Easter, I noticed that he was using a different wand. The rumour going around school is that, during his escape, Harry disarmed him. That, I think, must be true. Malfoy is really touchy about the fact that everyone knows he's using his mother's wand. He hexed a first year who merely mentioned the word wand in his presence. Because Malfoy is angry and unhappy, he's been doing what he has always done; he's been taking out his anger and frustration on those who are younger and smaller and weaker than he is.

I have so far resisted the temptation to hex him and his arrogant and bigoted friends. That is why I am one of the few DA members who did not join Neville in hiding. They need people like me on the outside.

There is a sudden commotion as other people arrive in the Great Hall: former pupils, other members of the DA, Aurors, and members of The Order of the Phoenix. There are a lot of people I do not recognise, but I know who the tall black man is. He was in one of Aunt Amelia's photographs. He is Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Aunt Amelia said that he is a fine and honest man. She suggested that, one day, he'd make a good Head of Magical Law Enforcement.

Soon, we will be fighting. I concentrate on remembering the lessons Harry gave us two years ago and on my studies with Neville and the others this year. I have been reading and rereading _Practical Defence against the Dark Arts_ , it's the book Harry used when he was teaching us. The Carrows have banned that book from the school, which is an excellent indication of how useful it is. I try to remember the chapter dealing with attack spells and jinxes and the section on the benefits of an indirect attack.

Then You-Know-Who's voice rings out across the school. Lord Voldemort, or "Lord flees-from-death," as Aunt Amelia used to call him, because that is the name he chose for himself.

Aunt Amelia was always interested in the magic of names. Amelia means industrious. Susan, apparently, means 'lily,' so I share my name with Harry's mum. I haven't told him.

I trust Harry, because Professor Dumbledore trusted Harry, and Aunt Amelia trusted Professor Dumbledore. There is, however, no sign of him and I begin to wonder where he is.

Voldemort's threat is still ringing in our ears when, as if on cue, Harry Potter arrives. He looks tired and rather unkempt, but he's also grim-faced, determined, and a little worried. He's alone, I realise. Ron and Hermione are not by his side and that fact suddenly fills me with anxiety. Seeing Harry alone like this is unusual; I hope that his two best friends are not hurt, or worse. Silence falls and heads turn as Harry Potter, "Undesirable Number One," walks through the Great Hall as though he's never been away. Voldemort has been trying to kill him for months. He has not succeeded, I remind myself, so perhaps there really is some hope.

_'But he's there! Potter's there! Somebody grab him!'_ _*_ Pansy Parkinson stands and squeals in terrified desperation. Miss 'I'm superior to everyone' Parkinson, the Head Girl, another snooty Slytherin bully, reveals her true self, and it is not pretty. She's hidden from me by a mass of fellow Slytherins, but I remember _Practical Defence against the Dark Arts_ , and realise that I could easily hurt her by blasting the wall behind her. I don't. She isn't worth it.

Most of the school stand and draw their wands. They point not at Harry, but at Pansy.

That is when I realise that we will win.


	7. Ernest Endeavours

**Ernest Endeavours**

Ernest Robert Walter Macmillan looked anxiously down his house table as the younger children were led away. He had hoped that some of his fellow Hufflepuff students would choose to remain behind, and his hopes had been rewarded. Many more than he'd expected still stood at the table. His chest swelled with pride as his housemates showed their support for Harry, he counted them, and then tried to count the number of Ravenclaw students.

It had troubled Ernie that there were only two of the original members of Dumbledore's Army, himself and Susan, at the Hufflepuff table. The Ravenclaws had four: Terry, Michael, Anthony and Padma. Ernie felt that this reflected badly on his house. There was no doubt that they were better off without Smith. Zacharius Smith was a liability and the undignified, cowardly way he'd fled the room when Professor McGonagall had announced the evacuation had certainly been an embarrassment to the great House of Hufflepuff.

As he pondered Smith's appalling behaviour, Ernie consoled himself in the knowledge that Smith was not the first member of the DA to turn on the group. The Ravenclaw girl, Edgecombe, had betrayed them two years ago.

Smith had been excluded from the DA this year at the request of both Neville and Ginny. Ernie - admittedly with Susan at his side - had personally demanded, and been given, Smith's DA Galleon. Smith had been suspicious, snide, and extremely unwilling to hand it over until Susan had threatened him with a particularly unpleasant hex which, she claimed, she'd been taught by her Aunt Amelia to use on "boys who tried to get overly-familiar." Ernie had no idea whether the hex even existed, but he certainly wasn't going to do anything to upset Susan, just in case. Neither was Smith.

Then Ernie saw them, the two people he'd hardly dared hope would return. They were standing at the back of the hall, smiling uncertainly at him. His best friends were here.

Ernie smiled back at them and beckoned them over. A pure-blood (himself), a half-blood (Hannah), and a Muggle-born (Justin), they had been friends, inseparable, ever since their first year. He'd always been - unofficially of course - the leader of the trio. Muggle-born Justin needed the guidance of a well-connected Pure-blood like himself, and Hannah was such a nervous, eager girl. Always ready to assist, but always needing help and reassurance.

Then, only a few weeks into their sixth year, Hannah's mother had been killed by Death Eaters and she'd left Hogwarts, never to return. Justin, of course, had been around through the remainder of their sixth year, but it wasn't the same without Hannah. Two people were not a trio, and Susan - the other member of the DA and, like Hannah, a Half-blood - had always ploughed her own furrow. For some reason he couldn't fathom, Susan had never really appreciated the friendly advice of a well-connected Pure-blood like himself.

Justin, very sensibly, didn't return for his final year. He was a Muggle-born, and this year there were no Muggle-borns in the school. The few who had boarded the train at the start of the year had been removed from it before it even left Kings Cross and taken to the Muggle-born Registration Commission. No one knew where they'd gone after that; Azkaban was the rumour, but on several occasions at the beginning of the year Draco Malfoy had gleefully hinted that their fate had been much worse than that.

Ernie had managed to contact Justin and Hannah a couple of times during the year and he had learned what "the Resistance", as they called themselves, had been doing. They had re-located Muggle-borns, destroyed Ministry files, fought, and spied. Hannah, quiet little Hannah, had been eavesdropping on Death Eaters while working as a barmaid in the Leaky Cauldron. She'd been working at the pub almost since she left school; it was almost unimaginable.

While his friends had been outside, he had been in Hogwarts, helping those other clever and resourceful pure-bloods; Neville, Ginny, and Luna, as they tried to stop the Carrows from torturing the younger kids. Susan had helped, too, and they'd recruited a few other Hufflepuffs, but it hadn't been the same without Justin and Hannah. Susan, unlike Hannah and Justin, would often question his leadership. But now, at last, after almost two years, the trio were reunited.

Hannah had been slightly taller than him when she'd left. He'd finally overtaken her, though only just. But she'd grown, too, outwards, not upwards. She'd cut her hair, it was now shoulder length and it suited her. She looked a lot more self-confident, too. That, presumably, was because she'd been working behind a bar for such a long time. The girl who was only just sixteen when she'd left school was now a curvaceous young woman of almost eighteen, and her barmaid's robes made the fact obvious.

Justin was wearing a Muggle shirt and trousers. He too looked a lot older than his eighteen years. His hair was as untidy as ever, but he looked so much more mature and certain of himself. Suddenly, Ernie felt like a schoolboy in their presence.

'Good to see you, Ernie, old boy.' Justin smiled as they shook hands.

'It's been a long time, Ernie. It really is good to see you,' Hannah whispered in his ear as she ignored his outstretched hand and hugged him, pulling him firmly into her curves.

Their catch-up conversation was cut short as the Order of the Phoenix took charge and began to organise the defence of the school. As they moved forwards along with the other Hufflepuffs, waiting to be given their assignments one of the Weasley twins looked across.

'Hey, gorgeous!' he shouted. 'You're with me. You don't want to get lumbered with some lugless oaf.' With an apologetic smile, Hannah hurried over to join Fred Weasley. 'You can come, too, Justin,' the twin added.

Ernie was astonished; he'd expected that the three of them would stick together, just like the old days. But his friends had not been to school, they had been in the outside world, making new friends and new contacts; "networking", Justin had called it in the one letter Ernie had received from his old friend. He watched jealously as Hannah went to join the Weasley twin, who greeted her like an old friend. Justin remained with Ernie, but only for a moment.

'I've got something I need to do, Fred,' Justin shouted. 'Let me know where you're going. See you later, Ernie.' With that, Justin turned and slipped out from the hall.

Ernie was bewildered and bereft; he didn't know what to do. He found himself standing in front of Professor McGonagall and a tall black man named Kingsley whose blood status he didn't know. The man placed Ernie and Susan, together with two sixth-years from Ravenclaw, a boy and a girl, under the command of a tall bespectacled redhead. Their leader, Ernie was pleased to discover, was Percy Weasley, another of Ron and Ginny's brothers, Percy was a pure-blood and a well respected former Head Boy.

The five of them headed out into the grounds. They were simply supposed to be watching, warning others if anyone approached the school. Once they were outside the plan went to pieces. Things quickly became chaotic and they found themselves surrounded by a dozen trolls. Percy fought bravely, they all did, they managed to stun three of the trolls but they were still outnumbered. When the Ravenclaw girl was seriously injured Percy ordered them to fall back. During their retreat the Ravenclaw boy was hit by another of the trolls and slammed against the castle wall.

That was when Percy Weasley lost his temper. Three of the trolls were killed by the troll-axe Percy levitated and sent spinning towards them. The remaining half-dozen fled, with the axe still chasing them. Susan took the injured girl to the Hospital Wing and Percy and Ernie went to find the fifth member of their group. They found him, but he was dead. Ernie looked down at the boy's broken body in horror, and vomited.

"Just call me Tommy," the Ravenclaw boy had said. Ernie suspected that Tommy was a nickname and the boy might be a Tompkins, or Thomason, or Thompson, but he didn't know. He had failed to save the boy, and didn't even know the unfortunate victim's real name. This, he felt, reflected badly on him.

Together, Percy and Ernie moved the body into the castle, leaving it in the Great Hall. While Ernie desperately tried to discover the boy's name, Percy disappeared back outside.

Ernie followed after Percy Weasley as soon as he could, but he was unable to locate him in the darkness and was forced to take cover next to the castle wall. As the battle continued, he quickly lost track of time. Spells flew everywhere and it was difficult to discern friend from foe. At one point, he almost hexed Justin.

'Have you seen Colin?' Justin asked as they took shelter behind a wall.

'The little Muggle-born Gryffindor?' Ernie asked. 'Professor McGonagall sent him home.'

'He didn't want to go. I brought him to Hogwarts for the fight, Ernie, because he's DA, like us. We stick together, you know that. I had to go and fetch Colin from his house, because he can't Apparate. He's still here somewhere. He's as safe here as anywhere, because he couldn't get home from Hogsmeade anyway. He was hiding in a broom cupboard until the action started.'

'What happened to him?' Ernie asked.

'That's what I'm trying to find out, Ernie. Professor Sprout wanted my help, and now I've lost him. He was with Lavender Brown and the other Gryffindors the last time I saw him. Have you seen any of them?'

'No,' Ernie admitted, feeling even more useless.

That was when the Acromantula came, and they were forced to retreat. They managed to blast their way past the Acromantula, and back towards the doors to the Entrance Hall. They were only about fifty yards from the doors when Justin shouted, "Dean!" and went sprinting off somewhere. Ernie tried to follow, but lost his friend in the darkness.

Finding himself alone again, Ernie tried to take stock of his situation. This was not what he'd imagined. There was more blood and death than he'd expected, and he was not the leader of a brave band of Hufflepuffs. He was simply a lost and lonely young man. He was fighting, because he knew that it was the right thing to do, but he was scared.

Lost and alone, Ernie moved cautiously through the grounds. He kept his head down, and fired off spells whenever he could, but he was feeling discouraged and despondent. Suddenly, he heard two familiar voices in the smoke and gloom behind him.

'Are you going out with him?' an Irish-accented male asked. 'You were holding his hand, I saw you.'

'He is a very nice boy, isn't he?' a sing-song female voice said.

'But...'

As he was listening to this insane battlefield conversation Ernie felt it, the creeping cold, the thickening mist and the sense of dread. It meant only one thing: Dementors, lots of them!

'Seamus, Luna, over here!' he ordered, and they came, as he knew they would. Luna waved and smiled happily, proving to Ernie that she was definitely the craziest person he knew. Unlike Luna, Seamus Finnegan was grim-faced, blood-spattered and fierce-looking. The three moved forwards, wands at the ready. There were Dementors everywhere, draining the vitality from the place. Harry, Ron and Hermione were struggling to defend themselves against the overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Luna called out encouragement to them. She turned and gave him a dazzling smile.

Ernie looked in amazement at the Ravenclaw student. Luna was still smiling despite the horrifying lethargy being spread by the Dementors. She wasn't crazy; she was simply incapable of giving up hope. She was ridiculously optimistic. Ernie smiled at Luna and raised his wand.

' _EXPECTO PATRONUM!_ ' he shouted. His boar Patronus joined those of Luna and Seamus and the Dementors fled.

_'I can't thank you enough_ _,' Ron began, 'you just saved --'_ _*_

Then the giant came. Ernie leapt aside and was suddenly alone again. But now, it didn't matter, Ernest Robert Walter Macmillan, pure-blood of Hufflepuff House, had helped to save the life of Harry Potter. He was not a failure. He might even get a medal.


	8. Abbot Ails

**Abbot Ails**

There's Ernie.

He hasn't seen us, so I release my boyfriend's hand. Poor Ernie will have enough to deal with; he doesn't need to know that Justin and I are together. He spots us, smiles happily, and beckons us over. As we move forward to greet our old friend, I am suddenly nervous. It's been such a long time since we've seen him.

I wonder what life's been like for Ernie. Very rough by all accounts, but none of us have had it easy. Life in the Leaky Cauldron has been ... interesting ... as the twins like to say. At least after tonight, I won't have to listen to any more sly innuendo or avoid any more groping hands while I'm eavesdropping on Death Eaters in the pub. After tonight, they'll know which side I'm really on.

One of them killed my mother, and one day I'll find out who it was.

Ernie shakes Justin's hand and then offers his hand to me.

'Hello, Hannah,' he says. He's grown a couple of inches and he's finally taller than me. I know that his lack of height has always bothered him, and I'm glad that I changed out of my heels before coming here.

I step past his outstretched hand and hug him tightly. I feel him tense. I probably should not have done that. Ernie has always been so formal and proper, but these days I'm used to the cheery informality of the pub. I hope that I haven't made him feel uncomfortable.

'It's been a long time, Ernie. It really is good to see you,' I tell him. It has, and it is; it's more than a year and a half since my mother was murdered.

There is no time for any small talk. Kingsley Shacklebolt takes charge begins to assign defensive positions to everyone. I hope that Harry knows what he's doing. No one seems to know why he is here, or what we're doing. All we know is that he is here. The rumours are that he's following Dumbledore's orders, and we need to keep Voldemort out of the school.

This all seems a bit improvised to me but, I remind myself, the resistance has been improvising wildly for almost a year. Perhaps this has something to do with the break-in at Gringotts.

"Who needs a plan? Just make it up as you go along." That's what Fred and George used to tell me. Even Kingsley seemed to agree. The only time I met him was when he spent a day instructing me on eavesdropping techniques. His version was more serious, "No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy", but it's the same thing, really.

The Weasley twins are standing at the front of the hall. Fred winks at me, nods towards Justin and leers. They haven't changed.

I haven't seen the twins since the Death Eaters raided their shop at Easter. It took the Death Eaters until then to realise that Ron was with Harry. What idiots! Until the raid, Fred and George were regulars in the pub, exchanging information with me and dropping off equipment. Fred could be a bit mean sometimes, and George could be a little crude, but they are both sweet. I've missed them; somehow, despite the gloom they managed to bring a bit of cheer to the Cauldron.

'Hey, gorgeous,' Fred shouts across the hall. 'You're with me. You don't want to get lumbered with some lugless oaf.' That's typical of Fred, but I know what he's like, if he's not going to be with George he'll need someone to keep an eye on him. I smile at Ernie and walk over to join Fred's group.

'You can come, too, Justin,' Fred adds. Justin winks at me.

'I've got something I need to do, Fred!' Justin shouts. 'Let me know where you're going. See you later, Ernie.'

Poor Ernie looks astonished. He always took charge when we were at school, but did he really think that now we're back we'd be following his lead?

I know where Justin is going. He's hidden Colin Creevey in a broom cupboard on the next floor, kept him out of the way because McGonagall ordered him to leave. I don't really know Colin, but Justin does, and Justin likes him.

Last year, Colin managed to warn a lot of the Muggle-borns, including Justin, about Umbridge's "Muggle-born Registration Commission". Like Justin, Colin has been fighting the Commission and the Death Eaters from the shadows ever since he went on the run.

Kingsley assigns us to guard duty. We are given one of the secret passages to guard, and we are there for a very long time, doing absolutely nothing. We feel the castle shake and hear the battle raging outside, but where we are, nothing is happening. No one attempts to enter through the tunnel. I stand and watch and wait. I have nothing to do but worry. I haven't seen Justin, or Ernie since the battle started and I hope that they are both still safe.

A bespectacled redhead runs along the corridor towards us. This, I realise, is Percy. I didn't just eavesdrop on Death Eaters in the Leaky Cauldron; I listened to the twins too. For months, they talked about their brother. They plotted all sorts of horrible things to do to "Percy the pillock," but now, surprisingly, Fred is pleased to see him.

'There are Death Eaters on the upper floors, Fred!' Percy shouts.

'I'll give you a hand, Perce,' Fred replies. He is obviously bored here, as nothing is happening. 'Lee, keep this lot here, guard the secret passage,' Fred orders, and with that, he is gone.

So we wait and wait, and still nothing happens; then George arrives.

'Seen Fred?' he asks.

'He went upstairs with Percy,' Lee Jordan and I speak together. George hurries away. I look at Lee, and he looks worriedly back at me. There is still nothing happening here, the castle is shaking, and everyone else is fighting.

'I'm going with George,' I tell Lee. I run after George before Lee can make me stay. Lee can't leave now, he only has three frightened and inexperienced sixth-years to guard the passage, and they need him.

There are more and more explosions outside. The castle is groaning like the wounded beast it is. I have followed George through a bewildering maze of secret passages, which I never knew existed. I'd heard rumours, of course, but I'd always been too scared to look for them. I am at his heels when he slips through a tapestry, and I find myself on a seventh floor corridor near the Room of Requirement. We have just reached a junction when a soot-blackened someone wearing singed school robes rounds the corner and almost collides with us. As the grimy figure slithers to a halt in front of us, it takes me a moment to recognise him. It's Draco Malfoy, of all people! He looks like a terrified little schoolboy. George hesitates; I don't think that he's recognised Malfoy under the grime.

'Don't hurt me! I'm on your side,' Draco whimpers. He is wretched and snivelling, but I don't trust him. He has recognised George, and is looking at me curiously; he is trying to remember who I am, and he can't place me. _I'm not the first-year girl whose pigtails you used to pull until I cried_ _, Draco_ _. I'm not that "fat, useless, Hufflepuff half-breed". I haven't been her since the DA was formed,_ I think to myself. I have an overwhelming urge to hex him and I find myself hoping that he tries something sneaky. But he doesn't.

'I haven't got a wand,' he begs.

George Weasley looks at me; for some reason he still hasn't recognised Malfoy. It's probably because Malfoy always wore immaculate robes and was superior and sneering. The filthy and frightened creature in front of us bears no resemblance to the bully who once terrified me.

'Draco Malfoy,' I tell George. 'Surely you remember the little creep; he was in my year.' Malfoy stares at me, startled. He still doesn't recognise me, but years of remembered insults are boiling up inside me, and they spill out. 'He's the one who almost killed Katie with that cursed necklace,' I add vindictively.

Justin and Ernie told me all about that. They wrote to me after I'd left and told me all about Draco's betrayal of his school last year. He almost killed Katie, and Ron Weasley too, and he let the Death Eaters into the school. That's when the Headmaster was killed. It's a miracle that there weren't more deaths.

On hearing my words, George doesn't hesitate. He thumps Malfoy in the eye, knocking him to the ground. It's a good solid punch. I've seen a number of fights in the bar and I know that Draco will have a real shiner of a black eye after that blow. George looks down, wand pointing at Draco's head, and we both realise that he was telling the truth; he does not have a wand. George steps over the pitifully sobbing wretch. I follow, we turn the corner and see...

We see the unimaginable, the incomprehensible. Malfoy's henchman, Gregory Goyle is bending over the body of Fred Weasley, rifling through his robes. Fred is dead, there is no doubt. My stomach roils, I feel the gorge rise to my throat, and somehow fight back the urge to vomit.

This cannot be real.

It is, my eyes and the taste of bile in my mouth confirm it. Somehow I become detached from reality, I put the horror from my mind and become detached. There will be time to grieve later.

'Fred?' George screams in horror, 'No! Fred! Leave him alone!'

George moves forwards, firing hexes blindly down the corridor towards Goyle.

Malfoy is behind us, I remember. I spin around, preparing to defend us, but Malfoy has fled. I wonder if he was the one who killed Fred.

If he did, he's a dead man!

Goyle is cowering, hiding behind the rubble which is strewn across the corridor, but he is not firing back. Why not?

He does not have a wand, either, I realise. How could either of them have killed Fred if they don't have wands? Why don't they have wands? But this is not the time for questions.

George's grief-stricken aim is terrible. I step alongside him and aim carefully. Goyle cowers and dodges into alcoves. He drops to the floor and slides backwards as we advance. There is an Acromantula advancing towards us. George laughs madly when he sees it.

Goyle is trapped, stuck between us and a giant spider. He's lying prone behind some rubble; he cannot possibly escape! Then, suddenly, he is gone. He dives sideways, an ancient and solid looking broom in his hand, and leaps through a gaping hole in the castle wall.

George screeches in anger and charges after him. I don't follow; instead, I concentrate on the rapidly approaching Acromantula. My Blasting Curse sends it crashing back down the corridor and against the wall. Its legs twitch for a moment and then it lies still.

I run along the corridor and grab George. He's leaning precariously through the hole, a tempting target for anyone outside. I pull him back inside moments before a curse flashes through the cavity. I drag him away, back along the corridor, back to the body of his twin.

'He had a broom! The coward got away!' George tells me, as if I hadn't witnessed Goyle's escape. Then he begins to cry. He cries wild, uncontrolled and uncontrollable tears of rage, grief and fear. He is bereft. I know how close the twins are. I've watched them in the pub. He slumps into my arms and I hold him tightly.

I say nothing. What words of comfort can I offer? "I'm sorry"? Of course I'm sorry, but those words are not enough, I know that. It is twenty months since I lost my mother. Even now I know that no words are enough for the sudden, inexplicable and violent loss of a loved one. No words can ever be enough.

I simply hold him tightly until Percy arrives with Mr and Mrs Weasley. The sight of this grieving family is too much for me to bear so I flee the scene and leave the Weasleys to their lamentations.

I must find Ernie and Justin! I must be sure that they are safe.


	9. Justin Time

**Justin Time**

As Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt began to organise the defence of the school, I waved to Ernie, winked at Hannah, and sneaked out of the Great Hall. I walked up the main staircase and along the first floor corridor to the broom cupboard where Colin Creevey was hiding.

'All clear, Colin,' I told him. 'Everyone's in the Great Hall. They are starting to get organised. Hannah will let us know where she's going so that we can join her.'

'Where's Harry?' Colin asked me eagerly. I shrugged.

'I've absolutely no idea, Colin, I'm sorry. No one seems to know. He's probably off doing whatever it is he has to, with Ron and Hermione,' I suggested. My answer wasn't good enough. It was clear from his face that Colin was desperately keen to see his hero.

I don't think that Colin and I ever spoke at school. Even when we had joined Dumbeldore's Army, we did little other than exchange a polite nod. By the time of the Battle, however, I knew him very well. He was, although I didn't realise it until it was too late, my friend.

I saw a lot of him during those chaotic few months. The previous summer he had managed to find my phone number and had telephoned to warn me about the Muggle-born Registration Commission. He had found out about the formation of the Commission even before it was announced by the Ministry, and he warned everyone that he could find. Once I found out, I helped him; we all did what we could.

Until then I'd never thought of myself as being a member of an ethnic minority. I hadn't really thought much about Colin, either. My father was a rich and powerful businessman; Colin's dad was a milkman. But, as Colin so wisely said, "Where we've come from doesn't matter; to Umbridge, we're both simply Muggle-born thieves of magic."

I could have fled, that's what my parents did. They, together with my brother and my sister, simply moved to Monaco. For tax reasons, my father was legally domiciled there anyway. He simply continued to run his business interests from the principality. My parents wanted me to move to Monaco with them; I didn't, but we allowed everyone think that I had. Father even paid to enrol me into a Monegasque school; a Muggle school, of course. We didn't want the Death Eaters to find us.

Colin could be a pain in the backside sometimes, but he meant well. He was indispensable to the Resistance, too. He was a genius with a camera. Send him an official document and he would ask you, "What do you want changed and how do you want it changing?" He even managed to get some official Muggle-born Registration Commission Parchment a few months ago, the real stuff, with the magical security code hidden in the letterhead. He wouldn't tell me, or anyone else, how he did it.

The Resistance had been trying to get some of the letterhead parchment for months, but Umbridge's security measures had reached paranoid proportions after Harry's break-in, and that was just after school started. The resistance simply could not get any parchment without serious risk. Then, just after Christmas, Colin announced that he had forty sheets and wanted to know what we wanted to do with them.

Katie Bell told him what needed to be done, and Colin forged a set of Muggle-born Registration Commission Prisoner Transfer Documents. Making the "Bailiff of the Law Office" Identity Cards was easy, by then he'd created an automated system for mass producing them. He'd handmade the first ones within weeks of us going underground.

Soon after he got the parchment several "Law Office Bailiffs" (Katie didn't know who, but she thought that Kingsley was one of them) walked into the Cardiff Office of Magical Law, collected every Muggle-born they had in their cells, and walked them all out to freedom.

After "the big escape", as everyone called it, it took me several weeks to sort out false identities for the escapees. But the work was a joy. It was an even bigger escape than the one Harry had managed. We were even happier when we heard about Umbridge's reaction.

Umbridge was, apparently, completely incandescent with rage. Sixty-three Muggle-borns were being held in the cells in Cardiff. All of them were awaiting transfer to her Commission in London. They had simply vanished. She was so angry when she heard news that she accidentally set fire to her desk. Potterwatch had a lot of fun with that story, but then Lee Jordan always enjoyed baiting "Delirious" Umbridge, as he called her.

I did my bit too, though I wasn't on the front line. It was up to me and my company to hide the Muggle-borns the Resistance managed to free, and any others we could find. I am the sole director of a leasing company, Goldfinch Properties, set up by my father (via several offshore accounts). I didn't run it of course; I had people to do that for me.

It worked well, most of the time. Apart from me, every member of my staff was a Muggle. There were a few problems when one member of staff got suspicious. She began an investigation, convinced that we were hiding illegal immigrants from the Government, which in a way we were. I was forced to Obliviate her, and then sack her. It was a pity, because she was sharp, and almost completely correct. We were providing fake Muggle identities for people who, until we intervened, had not appeared on any Muggle records.

We were very careful. The Muggle authorities would have had difficulty tracing the owner of Goldfinch Properties, had they been interested. But we paid our taxes, so they paid us no attention. We were hidden in plain sight, just one Muggle business among thousands. The Ministry of Magic would never have found us.

My company bought dozens of modest houses and flats across the country. All were occupied by people who were wanted by Umbridge's Commission, and their families. The Muggle-borns were all relatively safe, living as Muggles among Muggles.

When I got the call to go to Hogwarts earlier that night only three of my properties were vacant. I had my people looking for more houses. But as Colin and I walked along the balcony, I hoped that Goldfinch Properties would not need to buy any more homes for the displaced. First, of course, we'd have to defeat the Muggle-haters.

The balcony was deserted and quiet. Colin and I looked down into the Entrance Hall, watching and waiting. Soon the Entrance Hall filled with defenders, all heading off to carry out the tasks assigned to them. Hannah's Patronus arrived, as I'd asked. She told us where she was going. She had been sent to guard one of the secret passages with Fred Weasley and some others, so we set off downstairs to join them. We were in the Entrance Hall and were heading for the basement stairs, but we didn't get there.

'Finch-Fletchley,' Professor Sprout yelled. 'Come with me. I need someone experienced to help in the greenhouses.' She already had Neville, but she had decided that she needed more help, and she knew me. It was unreal. The Head of my House acted as if I had never been away. She did not question the fact that I was back at the school, she did not care about the fact that I was wearing Muggle clothes. I was in a two-hundred pound designer shirt; I had been going to a dinner party and had not had time to change.

Colin ducked low, which was very easy for him, and dodged sideways into the crowd. I saw him join his fellow Gryffindors and I watched as he headed outside with Dean and Seamus, Parvati and Lavender.

That was the last time I saw him alive.

Under the guidance of Professor Sprout, we grabbed Tentacula, Snargaluff pods and Mandrakes from the greenhouses, anything we could find which would help us defend the castle. We carried them into the Entrance Hall and up onto the balcony where we could defend the entrance. My shirt and trousers were already covered in mud, and I worried that they might never come clean. It seems ridiculous now, but at the time, that was the only thing that I was worried about.

That was when the attacks began. We heard shouts and screams from outside. The midnight sky lit up with bright flashes of spellfire. I wanted to go and check on Hannah, but I was needed on the balcony. I soon saw the Gryffindors re-enter the castle, Dean, Seamus, Parvati and Lavender, but no Colin. They were carrying someone. It was a Hufflepuff girl who I vaguely recognised. She was in the year below me and she was a broken and bloody mess. The four carried her upstairs, obviously heading towards the Hospital Wing. She was the first of many casualties I saw.

A troll tried to enter through the door behind them. Neville and I simultaneously shouted "Stupefy" and the troll was knocked back into the grounds. By then, desks were running downstairs to join in the defence of the school, the castle walls were shaking, and things were beginning to get really confusing.

Somehow, several Death Eaters got inside the school and, while others fought them off, I managed to sneak outside, to look for Colin. I was outside for hours, but I never saw him. I was with Ernie for a few minutes, but it was total chaos in the school grounds and we were forced to separate when several Acromantula attacked us. I didn't see Hannah at all, not until after Voldemort called a truce and demanded that we hand over Harry. I met her in the Entrance Hall; we had both been heading for the Great Hall. Hannah looked pale and worried. I asked her what was the matter and she told me.

'Fred,' she sobbed. It was the only word I could make out for a while. Through her sobs and wails I finally realised what she was saying. Fred Weasley was dead. She cried and cried, and I didn't know what to do. I held her, and hugged her, but there was nothing I could do or say to comfort her. She simply could not stop her tears.

It was a long time before she calmed down. When she did we went out into the grounds to try to help. There were still several wounded lying where they had fallen. While we were outside we met Neville and some of the others.

That was when I found out that Colin was dead.

Colin was dead and I suddenly understood Hannah's grief. It was my fault, because I brought Colin to the battle. I collected him from his parents' house and I brought him to Hogwarts, to his death.

I could have left him at his parent's place. That's what I should have done. He was cleverer than I was, he had realised how dangerous it would be. That's why he stunned his kid brother. Dennis was still safe at home.

I was responsible. If I hadn't gone to collect him, what could he have done? He was sixteen, he could not Apparate; he'd never even had an Apparition lesson. He would have been stuck at home.

He would have hated me for leaving him behind, but he'd be alive.


	10. Voldemort Doesn't Play Quidditch

**Voldemort Doesn't Play Quidditch**

_'Witches and wizards, it's Saturday night and it's seven o'clock._ _And_ _here on the Wizarding Wireless Network, it's time for_ _:_ _The Lee Jordan Show.'_

The warm-up act left the stage to claps and cheers from the studio audience. As the applause reached its peak, Lee Jordan walked out, gave a cheery wave, and created even more noise. He sat down in his comfortable black leather armchair, adjusted his microphone, watched the clock and waited for the red light to turn green. As always, it flashed into life at exactly one minute after seven.

'Hello, witches and wizards everywhere! Welcome to the Lee Jordan Show!' he began. He watched the clock as he waited for the renewed applause to die down--fourteen seconds--his best was thirty-one. Lee wondered whether, after almost three years hosting the show, he needed to change his traditional opening lines. He made a mental note to discuss the opening with Alicia and the rest of the production team.

'Thank you. We pride ourselves on finding the finest guests for this show, and tonight I have a real treat for you. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I am talking to not one, but two stars from the world of Quidditch.

'My first guest is the man who helped rebuild Puddlemere United. The man who transformed them into the team they are today. The man who not only captains and plays Keeper for Puddlemere, a team which came from nowhere to finish second, behind Holyhead Harpies, in this season's British and Irish League, but who only last month was made captain of the Scottish team. In addition to these remarkable achievements, last week this man won Witch Weekly's "Most Attractive Male Quidditch Player" award. I'm sure he'll have plenty to discuss with the winner of the "Most Attractive Female Quidditch Player" category.

That's right, folks, my second guest will be the long-time girlfriend of Harry Potter--three years together and still no ring, I've checked—Miss Ginny Weasley. Ginny will join us later in the show, and you'll be able to hear her murder me on live radio for that comment about the ring.'

Lee waited for the laughter to die down before continuing.

'But now, witches and wizards, please welcome my first guest this evening, Captain of Puddlemere and Scotland, the handsome Oliver Wood.'

As the applause rose Lee stood, and the famous wireless show host shook hands with the famous Quidditch Keeper. He motioned Oliver to sit on the guest sofa.

'Oliver, welcome to the show.'

'Thanks, Lee.'

'Before we start on your current career and on the other things I've mentioned, I'd like to ask you about something else. The third anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts is now less than three weeks away, and I want to discuss your part in that battle. In particular, I'd like to ask you about a statement you made to Quidditch Today just days after the Battle. I have the article right here.' Lee waved the magazine with a flourish.

'The story is about the deaths of three Puddlemere players and several fans at Hogwarts, I'll read the opening line of the article.' Lee ostentatiously cleared his throat and began. He used the stilted and formal Wizarding Wireless Network announcer's voice which he always affected when reading a news article.

'When asked about the reasons for his and his team's involvement in the Battle of Hogwarts, Puddlemere's reserve Keeper, Oliver Wood, replied, "Voldemort doesn't play Quidditch".' Lee returned to his normal voice. 'Would you care to expand on that remarkable comment, Oliver?'

'I'm a little uncertain as to what I actually said that day, Lee. Things were very confused in the days after the battle, as I'm sure you remember. I thought that I'd said, "Voldemort doesn't _like_ Quidditch", but that report may well be correct.'

'Nevertheless, Puddlemere United are now renowned as, "the team who fought at Hogwarts!" and it started, like many of these stories do, with a girl, correct?'

'Katie Bell, yes,' Oliver said quietly. He then lapsed back into silence.

Lee pursed his lips and thought quickly. Oliver was never an easy man to interview. There were two reasons for this: first, they knew each other too well; and second, Oliver never, ever, talked about personal matters, especially not about Katie. When Ginny came on, halfway through the show, Lee knew that things would be no better. She had made it abundantly clear that she would talk about Quidditch, but not about her relationship with Harry. Unfortunately, Lee knew very well that the story of the romance between Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter was the only thing his audience really wanted to hear.

Oliver's silence stretched out into several seconds and, as his audience became restless, Lee had no option but to fill the void.

'So, Oliver, why do you think that Voldemort didn't play Quidditch?'

Oliver sat forwards in his chair.

'He had no respect for the game, its players, or its teams. Surely that's obvious.'

'Is it?' Lee asked. 'How can you be so sure?'

'Quidditch is the sport of wizards, the noble game. There isn't a witch or wizard in the country who if you asked them, "which team do you support?" wouldn't tell you instantly.'

'Unless they're Cannons fans, they like to keep the fact quiet,' observed Lee. His audience laughed appreciatively.

'No,' Oliver protested. 'Even Cannons fans aren't afraid to show their support, no matter how misguided it may be. But Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, as Harry now likes us to call him, showed no interest at all in the game.'

'We now know that he was brought up in a Muggle orphanage and that he knew nothing about our ways,' Lee pointed out.

'That has nothing to do with it,' Oliver said dismissively. Lee watched his friend happily; Oliver was getting passionate about Quidditch, and that always made for a good interview.

'It doesn't?' Lee goaded.

'Two of the finest young players I ever saw were brought up by Muggles. Everyone knows Harry's story, but fewer know the story of Katie Bell. I hold Tom Riddle personally responsible for the fact that these two remarkable players were lost to the world of Quidditch. As captain of my national team, Scotland, I'm really rather pleased that the England selectors are unable to pick the finest Seeker, and one of the finest Chasers of their generation.'

'I'm certain that another England Chaser, Ginny Weasley, may have something to say about that comment,' Lee remarked, getting another appreciative laugh from the crowd. Oliver was not distracted. He waved the remark away with a dismissive gesture which was appreciated by the studio audience, but unseen by listeners.

'Ginny's not bad either, but Harry Potter climbed onto a broom for the first time when he was eleven and he proved to be a brilliant flyer. Katie Bell was exactly the same; she was Muggle-born, but she was a natural on a broom. When I left school, I told the Puddlemere scout to keep an eye on both Harry and Katie, and he did. Harry, of course, kept getting himself injured, not always during the game!'

'Katie was in the year above Harry,' Lee interjected before Oliver took off on an angry tangent about Harry Potter's tendency to get involved in dangerous non-Quidditch related activities.

'That's right, Lee. As you know, within weeks of leaving school, Katie was on Puddlemere's books and she was training with the squad. She fitted in really well and, just like Ginny at the Harpies, she was put straight into the first team. Then, just before the season started, she was summoned in front of the Muggle-born Registration Commission.' Oliver spat the words contemptuously.

'The Quidditch League has always had to put up with a load of nonsense from the Department of Magical Sports and Games. That interference was bad enough, but having the Minister's Office, this "Muggle-born Registration Commission" interfering too! It was ridiculous. Besides: Pureblood, Muggle-born, who cares?' Oliver turned and addressed the audience directly. Lee smiled; this was going to be a good show.

'To a true Quidditch fan, it doesn't matter. Werewolf, half-veela, house-elf, whatever you care to name; to a fan, there is only one important question, isn't there? Are ... they ... any ... good?' The audience cheered as Oliver forcefully emphasised every word.

'So you believe that Quidditch helps to reduce prejudice? Is it really that significant?' Lee asked.

'We all know that Quidditch isn't a matter of life and death. It's much more important than that!' Oliver continued to cheers and laughter.

'Our manager, Phil Deverill, tore up the summons and went to see Umbridge himself. It didn't work. According to Phil, the stupid old bat didn't even know the difference between a Seeker and a Chaser! So, reluctantly, Puddlemere United had to let Katie go. She didn't go to the Commission, of course. She went into hiding and joined the Resistance. It was a huge loss to our team and whose fault was that?'

'Umbridge,' the audience roared angrily.

'Yes. But only because Tom "Voldemort" Riddle was allowing the Ministry to interfere in team selection!' Oliver said angrily. Even after three years, an uneasy hush fell across the audience when Oliver shouted the name.

'To be honest, Lee, I had never been interested in politics. Quidditch was my life and I didn't pay much attention to anything else. That, I suddenly realised, was wrong of me; politics was interfering with the game! It wasn't until we lost Katie that I realised how serious this whole Voldemort thing was. Voldemort didn't care about Quidditch! So I found myself getting more and more involved, I'm not a hero, not like the Resistance, but I did my best to help them whenever I could. I kept in touch with Katie and I took an interest.' Oliver paused for breath. This time Lee did not fill the silence, he could sense the audience expectation, so simply waited for Oliver to continue.

'We finished seventh in the league that season; I've no doubt that it would have been higher, had we had Katie on the team. We didn't and, sadly, we still don't. We weren't the only team affected by the loss of Muggle-born players of course, but it didn't take me long to realise that Voldemort was bad for the game.'

'So how exactly did your team end up at Hogwarts?' Lee asked.

'I'd like to be able to tell you that Puddlemere got involved in the Battle because of a sense of duty, but we didn't. It was an accident. The night the battle started was the night of the retirement presentation for the brilliant Gordon Slopes, my predecessor as first team Keeper. I'll be forever indebted to Gordon. He taught me a lot, and he saved my life during the battle.

'The retirement presentation for Gordon was being held at the Puddlemere Alhambra. Katie knew where we were, where I was. She arrived during the meal, walked up to me, and said, "Harry's at Hogwarts; this is it. I just came to say goodbye." She didn't ask me to go with her, and I don't really think that she expected me to go. But I realised how important this was, not just for her, but for the game, for everyone.

'I told her I was coming with her. A couple of the other players tried to talk me out of it. One of them asked me why I wanted to go. I reminded him that Jocelind Wadcock, one of the finest Chasers Puddlemere—or the world—has ever seen had been arrested by the Muggle-born Registration Commission only a week earlier. She was eighty-seven years old, but until her arrest she still came to every game and sat in the Chairman's box as our honoured guest. She had watched every home game since she retired from professional Quidditch and now she couldn't, because she was Muggle-born.' Oliver looked beseechingly at the audience, he was reliving the moment.

'I asked, "How much longer are we prepared to allow this interference?" I said Vol--actually, I can't remember everything that I said. I know that I said, "You-Know-Who doesn't play Quidditch. He won't let us pick the players we want." I asked "What next, no half-bloods? That would leave us with four players! They might even try to ban the game, because we all know that the Death Eaters don't like big crowds." Well, whatever I said, when I'd finished talking, Gordon Slopes stood and said, "I'm coming, too," and before we knew what was happening the entire team and the manager, and the head of the supporters club and various wives and husbands were all on their feet. Katie told us that it would be dangerous, but that didn't put us off. She knew the secret way into Hogwarts. The Aurors had a Floo connection set up at the Leaky Cauldron.'

By now Lee's audience were cheering and clapping and there were even chants of "Puddlemere forever" ringing out. Lee smiled happily and attempted to calm them down.

'Let the man finish, please,' Lee requested. 'So, when you say it was an accident that Puddlemere fought, what you meant, of course, was that it was a coincidence, you would have gone anyway. You simply took some volunteers with you.'

'That's right, Lee. There's not much more for me to say. We went, and we fought. We did our bit because we knew that it was the right thing to do for the future of Quidditch, and for the wizarding world. So far as I know, our Beaters, Eilish Plunkett and Mick Moralee, are the only people to have tried to fight trolls and giants using Bludgers. They did a bloody good job too. Yes, we won the battle, but it was a terrible time.' Oliver paused, he was close to tears, and the audience was respectfully silent.

'We lost four members of our supporters club in that battle, Fred and Alma Witherington, Mike Mackinnon and Andy Andrews. We lost our Seeker, Becky Bunting; a Chaser, Nobby Gates, and we lost poor old Gordon, whose retirement lasted only hours. Gordon pushed me out of the way when a troll attacked us. He took the blow himself. Our Captain, Davey Mabey, lost a hand to a Death Eater’s curse and never played again. Half a dozen others were injured. Eilish Plunkett is the only Beater in the league with a wooden leg, and I still think her three-match ban last season, for using the leg as a second Beater's bat, was completely unfair.'

Oliver looked out at the audience and lowered his voice even further.

'I ... I was one of those who went out into the grounds to help the wounded. I was with "Snakeslayer" Longbottom when we found the body of the youngest victim of the battle. His name was Colin Creevey and he was sixteen, and he was a Gryffindor student who photographed every Quidditch game. He was Muggle-born, but that doesn't matter. It never mattered. All that mattered was that Colin was a Quidditch fan.' Oliver paused and blew his nose noisily; the audience remained raptly silent.

'Harry Potter would have been a great Seeker, but he decided to become an Auror. Katie Bell would have been a great Chaser, but she never came back to Quidditch. She is still running the Society for the Assistance of Muggle-borns, still helping those made homeless, robbed and crippled during that terrible year. I don't blame her, or Harry, they are doing what they need to do, helping in the way they want to help. Why? Because Voldemort didn't care about Quidditch. Never trust anyone who doesn't like Quidditch.'

'Well, thanks for that, insight, Oliver.' Lee's voice was low and respectful. 'Thank you for that timely reminder to everyone. Every year, we remember the anniversary of the Battle and we pay our respects to the fallen, to those ordinary people who did something extraordinary. People like the players and fans of Puddlemere United. I think that now would be a good time to bring on my second guest, Holyhead Harpies and England Chaser, and another veteran of the Battle of Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley.'


	11. Waning Moon

**Waning Moon**

Everyone knows that Edinburgh is a city, and that it has an impressive castle. Not everyone knows that it is also two towns.

The castle sits atop the rocky crag called, pragmatically, Castle Rock. It perches atop the highest point of the crag and it looks down on everything. Adjacent to it, tumbling down the spine of the crag towards the sprawling plains below, is the Old Town. The maze of tall stone buildings follow a medieval street pattern and all thrust their way skyward; each attempting to achieve primacy over their neighbours. But no matter how hard they try, these buildings lie subservient to the castle. The Georgian grandeur of the New Town, little more than two centuries old, lies on the plain at the base of the crag. Although it is looked down on by its imposing old neighbours, the New Town's stylish splendour cannot be ignored.

Not far from the base of the Castle Rock lies a small alley which Muggles do not notice. The alley lies on an uneasy border, not quite within the Old Town nor entirely comfortable in the New. At the end of this alley stands a gate which only magical folk can see. Beyond the gate lies Side Way, a long cobbled street containing an inn (The Wand and Thistle) and shops by the dozen. Halfway along this street—which despite its apparent size does not appear on any Muggle maps of the city—stands an austere granite building. The sign and crest above the door to this imposing stone structure combine to inform ignorant visitors that they have found the location of 'The Ministry of Magic: Scottish Office'.

In a windowless, white-walled basement room of the Scottish Office a young man lay prone on the floor. He was lean and lanky, but otherwise rather nondescript. His hair was an ordinary dark-brown and his eyes were a very average and unremarkable shade of brown, too. Usually, he was remarkably unremarkable, in both appearance and behaviour. Now, however, his actions were far from normal.

The young man, Under-Bailiff Mark Moon, was making involuntary flailing movements. His muscles were twitching uncontrollably; it was as if they believed that they could flee the pain coursing through them simply by moving rapidly. They could not.

Mark's bones were on fire. As the pain in his limbs gradually dragged itself away from intolerable and cautiously edged towards excruciating, the Sheriff's recent words rang in his ears, as did his own optimistic, and wholly inaccurate, response.

"They have specifically asked for you first, Bailiff Moon, because you're the youngest. No one will blame you if you leave and go into hiding."

"I'll be fine, Sir. After all, they aren't going to subject me to an Unforgivable Curse inside a Ministry building, are they?"

The pain receded further, and Mark prepared himself for more questions from his interrogator. As he did so several much more mundane sensations slowly returned to his body. He discovered that his mouth was filled with the sharp metallic taste of blood. His tongue was bloated, bruised and torn; he must have bitten it. The last Cruciatus Curse had been longer and more powerful than the others. His cheeks were wet; he'd been crying, too.

'I will ask you again,' snarled Jugson, his ruddy face contorted in hate. 'Why has the Scottish Office failed to arrest any of those Mudblood thieves of magic? Madam Umbridge demands answers!'

'Ah dinnae ken,' mumbled Mark, trying to hide his lie within a thickened accent.

'You don't know? You don't know how thirty-eight people at addresses across Scotland escaped, or fled before your office arrived? You couldn't arrest any of them?' Jugson sneered. 'That's not simply incompetence! That is collusion with the enemy, sedition, and you'll pay for it.'

'We caught one,' Mark murmured.

'One!' screamed Jugson, spittle flying from his mouth as his anger approached apoplexy. 'And that was the day after I arrived here to investigate! Tell me the truth! This office is corrupt, isn't it? The entire Scottish Law Office is actively working against the Minister in London, ignoring official Ministerial decrees and orders. You're just like the Welsh. Filthy, traitorous scum, the lot of you! We'll close you down and raze this building to the ground, just like we did in Wales! Who is responsible for this treason? Who is your master?' He raised his wand again.

Through his tears and pain, Mark noticed that the door to the interrogation room had been opened. He knew then that he would not be suffering for much longer.

God had entered the room, and he'd brought the Fiscal with him.

'I am in charge, Mr Jugson,' God spoke in slow, deliberate tones. 'I am the High Advocate for Scotland. My name is Godfrey Griffon.'

Tall, grey bearded and white robed, the High Advocate, Godfrey "God" Griffon spoke softly, but with commanding force. 'This is the Procurator Fiscal, Madam Quarrell.' He nodded to the small, round, elderly lady standing at his side.

'You are interfering with an official Ministry interrogation!' Jugson spat contemptuously. 'Get out, or you'll be next!'

'I don't think so, Mr Jugson. We have just witnessed you using an Unforgiveable Curse, which is an offence contrary to the Common Law of Scotland,' the Fiscal said quietly. She spoke very precisely and used the formal words preceding an arrest. Although the Fiscal, Edna Quarrell, was a tiny, plump and rosy-cheeked woman who looked like everyone's favourite Granny, every Law Officer in Scotland was utterly terrified of her. They had good reason: they knew her.

'What?' Jugson screamed in disbelief. 'I...'

He was suddenly silenced as he hastily pulled up the sleeve of his robes, revealing his burning Dark Mark.

'Och, I forgot to tell you,' said God, his insincere apology dripped with sarcasm as he stared at the Death Eater's forearm. 'Potterwatch has been broadcasting the news for a wee while now. Apparently Harry Potter is at Hogwarts. The High Sheriff, and the Sheriffs and Bailiffs of the Office of Law for Scotland are assembling upstairs, getting ready to leave for the school. It lies within our jurisdiction after all. There are likely to be a lot of people there who escaped from Azkaban, which is also in our jurisdiction. We intend to re-arrest them.'

Jugson, who had been spellbound by the Advocate's slow and commanding speech, finally realised what was happening. He did not get the chance to raise his wand. The High Advocate and the Fiscal both silently fired Stunning Spells and the Death Eater was slammed, unconscious, against the opposite wall.

Mark Moon watched the events with vindictive pleasure. He attempted to stand, but failed. His still burning bones and twitching limbs would not obey him.

'I'm sorry, Bailiff Moon,' the Fiscal said gently. 'We would have intervened sooner, but the Sheriff of Alba heard the broadcast and contacted us. We had to organise quickly. Jugson's two companions are already in the cells.'

The Fiscal turned towards the door and called, 'Gaoler, remove the prisoner. He's under arrest for using an Unforgivable Curse.'

The Gaoler, a witch almost as wide as she was tall, strolled in, grabbed Jugson by one ankle and began to pull him unceremoniously from the room.

'Levitate him, Aileen. You cannot drag him to the cells like that! Not all the way along the corridor and down two flights of stairs!' the Fiscal reprimanded the Gaoler.

'I think ye'll find that I can, Fiscal. He's no' that heavy. We can argue about whether or no' I should hae done it later,' Aileen replied, gazing concernedly down at Mark. The Fiscal, who always did everything strictly by the book, raised an eyebrow but, astonishingly, said nothing more.

'If you'll excuse us, Bailiff, the Healer is here. We'll leave her to look after you. We must get to Hogwarts and you need to rest and recover,' said God.

'My ... sister ... at ... Hogwarts,' gasped Mark urgently as a frowsy-haired middle-aged witch in green robes strode into the interrogation room.

The Fiscal looked at him sympathetically. 'You cannot even stand, Mark. You're no good to her like this. We'll try to find her for you.'

'Drink this; it will make you feel better.' The Healer carefully poured a potion into his mouth. Mark drank it eagerly, hoping that he could recover enough strength to follow his colleagues. Instead, he began to feel drowsy. It was a Sleeping Draft, he realised, and as the High Advocate and the Procurator Fiscal strode from the room to organise for battle, Mark fell into a restful sleep.

* * *

It was nearing dawn when Mark woke. His limbs were still trembling and he could barely hold his wand but, ignoring the vociferous protests of the Healer, he staggered out of the Ministry, into Side Way, and somehow managed to Apparate to the village of Hogsmeade without Splinching himself. He staggered through deserted streets, making his way to the Hogwarts gates as quickly as he could. There were well over a hundred people standing outside the school, all trying to gain access.

'What's going on?' asked Mark slowly and carefully. His tongue was still thick and sore inside his mouth. He addressed the question to the first person he met, a burly middle-aged man with striking, almost violet, blue eyes.

'The school is sealed,' the man told Mark. He jerked a thumb at a grossly overweight man in a purple silk dressing-gown at the Hogwarts gates. 'He's one of the Professors and he's been trying to get in for hours. He reckons that You-Know-Who has sealed the gate to stop anyone getting in to help Potter.'

'But ... my sister's in there!' said Mark.

'So is our daughter,' the curvy, curly haired woman standing next to the burly man, told Mark. She looked terrified, and nervously held her husband’s arm.

'The younger students got out hours ago, son. They've all been taken home,' the man said reassuringly. 'The only ones left inside are of age; perhaps your parents collected your sister?'

'Dad's dead, Ma's a Muggle,' Mark told them, shaking his head despairingly. 'And she's a seventh-year.'

'So is our daught...' the man began, but he was interrupted by a roar from the front of the crowd. The school gates had opened. The fat man's voice boomed out over the crowd.

'It seems that the Dark Lord's spell has failed.' He sounded astonished by his own words. 'He may be dead, or this may be a trap. I suggest that we proceed with caution.'

A burly young red-haired man standing alongside the fat man dodged past him and ran into the grounds. The crowd surged forwards and the fat man unwittingly found himself leading a charge. Mark followed, running among masses of parents and shopkeepers. He dodged desperately through the multitude as he made his way toward the school. In his desperation, he pushed forwards, managing to get near the front of the motley army despite the agonising fire which still smouldered in his bones.

As the faint first light of dawn appeared faintly on the horizon, they crested the hill and charged towards the castle. The ancient school had taken heavy damage, but scores of defenders stood outside, defiantly confronting a similar number of Death Eaters. Then confusion reigned.

Mark saw a flash of silver, as someone raised a sword. As if it were a signal, arrows rained down on the Death Eaters. A herd of Centaur archers, already nocking arrows in preparation for a second volley, poured from the forest, Hippogriffs swooped down from the sky, and battle was joined.

The surviving Death Eaters desperately attempted to defend themselves from new opponents coming from three directions; grounds, forest, and sky. They tried to fight their way into the castle.

As he ran forwards, Mark saw an injured Death Eater removing both cloak and mask. She was trying to hide in the crowd. Mark stunned her. He only just managed to shout ' _Incarcerous_ ,' and bind her before he was swept along by the mob.

By the time he entered the Great Hall the combat was almost over. Inside a shimmering shield spell, "The Chosen One" was facing "The Dark Lord".

The teenager and the monster circled each other cautiously, talking quietly to each other. Everyone else simply stood and watched, waiting for the inevitable. At the moment the sun crested the horizon, the two combatants moved simultaneously. It was over in an instant; one spell and the Dark Lord fell. A new day dawned, both literally and metaphorically.

Mark ignored the celebrations; instead he began looking quickly through the rejoicing crowds. Everywhere he looked people were hugging and kissing. But he saw no sign of his sister. He was not alone in his anxiety. Worried parents were running wildly around the room.

He saw the couple he'd spoken to at the gate; they were talking to a slender and pretty dark-skinned girl whose thick black hair was bound into a pony-tail. The man was in tears.

'She's still alive, Don,' he heard the woman say to her husband. 'And she's strong, you know that.'

'I'll take you to the hospital wing,' the girl told them.

The Hospital Wing! Mark was about to follow when he saw a fellow Bailiff, Heather Huddleston, in the crowd. He looked into her eyes, but did not even have the chance to ask the question. He saw her horror, saw the word "sorry" forming on her lips and he collapsed to the floor in agony.

Suddenly, the Cruciatus Curse did not seem so bad.


	12. Epiphany and Fall

**Epiphany**

I watch Harry and Luna head out of the room, and then turn back to see how Cho Chang is reacting.

It was obvious that Cho was looking forward to going off to the Ravenclaw Common Room with Harry. She is definitely not happy; her disappointment is etched openly across her face.

Ginny, however, is looking very pleased with herself. She suggested Harry take Luna, and Harry agreed.

Cho is wasting her time; she has got absolutely no chance with Harry. She's a Ravenclaw! Is she really stupid enough to think that she has? Harry could probably have any girl he wanted (except the ice-maiden Susan, of course). I quite fancy him myself; even though I have no doubt that he would be a lot of work. But it makes no difference, he doesn't like me. I know that for a fact, because the famous "Chosen One" has never been very good at hiding his emotions.

Harry is only interested in three girls: Ginny, Luna and Hermione. In that order, I think, because it's obvious that he doesn't actually fancy Hermione. He treats her like one of the boys, he always has. But then, Hermione has always acted like one of the boys. She doesn't seem to care about her appearance. I am better looking than she is, and better made up, and I take care to dress nicely, too. Not that any of those things did me any good with Ron.

Ginny is looking smug. I'm not sure that she should. I suspect that Ginny doesn't realise that Harry is a lot fonder of Luna than he is of Cho. I don't think that Harry fancies Luna, but he likes her. I have no idea why. She's another strange one; she has no fashion sense at all. Perhaps he likes her because she doesn't scare him, which is odd because the Lovegood terrifies me. I never know what she is going to say or do. Luna even frightens Neville, bless him.

Neville Longbottom, our brave and noble leader. He's really quite cute; rugged and rather fanciable. He doesn't have a girlfriend, either. He's available. Unfortunately, I have a boyfriend.

\------------

I am reminded of my first year at Hogwarts. My mind drifts back to my very first night in my new dormitory.

'I know we got Potter, and yet another Weasley, but who's the useless little fat kid, Parvati?' I asked.

'I think he's called Nigel something, Lavender,' she tells me.

'He's called Neville Longbottom, and he's actually very nice,' our squeaky voiced and buck-toothed dorm-mate told us.

I smile to myself at the memory. Is the Granger girl NEVER wrong?

\------------

For Harry, Ginny is the one. We all know that they "split up" after Dumbledore's funeral, because Ginny told us so at the beginning of this year. Of course they did! But, that's what you wanted us to believe, Ginny, and that's fine.

I actually believed Ginny when she first told us, we all did. She really is an extremely good liar. But later, whenever there were rumours of bad news about Harry, you could see the fear and the love in her eyes. She's got it real bad.

I wasn't certain that it went both ways, not until a few minutes ago. But then I saw the way Harry looked at her when she arrived; "A look of desperate longing", that's how they describe it in the romantic novels I read, and that was Harry, looking at Ginny. Until I saw those two look at each other I wasn't certain that "desperate longing" even existed. I know now.

I saw the way that Ginny reacted to Cho's suggestion, too. Harry and Ginny are crazy about each other and, when they are together, they simply can't hide that fact. Perhaps that's why they stayed apart. Something else is obvious, too. Harry wants Ginny to be safe, and he doesn't care about the rest of us.

That's not fair of me.

He does care, that's why he's here. He's here because he would die for us all. But if he lives and Ginny dies, he'll be heartbroken; I can see that. I fancied Ron something rotten, above and beyond common sense, certainly. And he broke my heart.

It was tragic! It was the end of my world!

At least that's what I told Parvati at the time, but I got over it after a few weeks. Somehow, I don't think that Harry would ever get over losing Ginny. I wonder how that feels? It must be wonderful—and utterly terrifying—to feel that way about someone. Last year I deluded myself into thinking that I felt that way about Ron, and this year, I did the same thing again with Seamus. But I already know that I don't feel that way about Seamus, not any longer.

I'm sorry, my bruised and battered lover; I like you, and I thought I loved you, but I don't feel desperate longing. I am truly sorry, and when this is over and your poor beaten body is healed I'm going to tell you that it's over between us.

I turn my gaze to Ron and Hermione.

Hermione, you're supposed to be clever, but you don't know everything. You certainly don't know how to attract boys. Wear some make-up, get some decent clothes, don't shout at them and don't lecture them. It's your fault that you and Ron still aren't together, because you fancy him and he certainly fancies you. You are a couple of idiots.

As I am watching Hermione, she is watching me. I wonder what goes on inside that annoying, frightening, calculating brain. I turn my attention to Ron. And that's when I really, truly know that whatever we had has gone. He sees me looking at him, and lowers his head. He can barely look at me, he's embarrassed. He is embarrassed! That could be useful. I could make you squirm, Ron, but I won't, because although those giddy, dizzying feelings have fled, I still miss those lovely long, enveloping arms.

I was so immature last year, I know that now. And so was Ron. Not any longer. He's grown up; he is serious, and not afraid to give Harry advice. Then something else strikes me. As I watch Ron and Harry I realise that, unlike most of us, Ron has never been afraid to give Harry advice. I wonder what Ron is saying to his friend, and what that bruised and battered trio have been through. Even more than us, by the way they look.

\------------

I remember the beginning of this year, when we'd been told that Ron had spattergroit and wouldn't be at school.

'What on earth did you see in the idiot, Lavender?' Parvati asked. She doesn't like Ron, she thinks that he's an "ignorant fool". Actually, when she says that, I think that she's simply voicing Padma's opinion.

'He is an idiot, but he's really quite cute and he's funny and he's tall, very tall. I like tall men, Parvati.'

'So why choose Seamus? He's not much taller than me,' Parvati asked me.

That was a good question, and I still don't know the answer. I think that it was because I wanted a boyfriend, because a girl should have a boyfriend. And anyway, Seamus has always fancied me, ever since the Yule Ball. Of course, he was one of only two seventh-year Gryffindor boys available at the beginning of the year.

I had a choice of two, and I still managed to choose the wrong one. What does that say about me?

\------------

Oliver Wood has just arrived. He's tall and very good-looking, but he's holding Katie Bell's hand. Who are all of these people? Where have they come from and why are they here?

I know the answer to the last question, of course. They're here to fight, because this can't go on. Poor Michael Corner would have died in that cell if Neville and the boys hadn't rescued him from the Carrows. They were just starting on Seamus when we rescued him. If we hadn't, he'd have been the Carrow’s next casualty. Welcome to the school of torture.

I hope that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle rot in hell; the Bulstrode bitch, too!

Padma and Parvati are talking about combat tactics, wondering what will happen. It's late evening and it is the day after my eighteenth birthday. I should be sitting on my bed in my dorm, talking about boys and clothes and make-up and normal stuff. Instead, I'm hiding in this room and I'm discussing the best methods to use against killers and criminals while we are fighting for our lives.

We celebrated my birthday in this room. I'm eighteen years old and I don't know whether I'll reach nineteen.

\------------

I think back to my last day in the school, the Muggle Studies lesson, just over a week ago.

'I want to join the Muggle-born Registration Commission when I leave school, Professor,' Pug-face simpered.

'An excellent ambition, Miss Parkinson! And what about you, Brown?' the She-Carrow asked.

'I want to be an Auror. I want to track down and capture stupid, fat, ugly, and evil witches who spread lies and torture children. You're top of my list. Bulstrode is next,' I told her.

I had finally had enough of their smirking superiority and I cracked. Only the night before they had captured Seamus (who'd fled a week earlier) and they had him locked in the dungeon. I was already teetering on the edge, and Parkinson's and Carrow's snide sniping finally pushed me over.

I had my wand ready. The foul Fury always left her wand on the table while she was telling horrible lies, or "teaching" as she liked to call it. When she made a dive for her wand I stuck it to the table with a sticking charm. That was a mistake, I should have summoned it. If I had she wouldn't have been able to torture any more little children with it.

' _Densaugeo_ ' I shouted, hitting the Bulstrode behemoth squarely in the face with my jinx. It was one of my best; her teeth grew so quickly that they actually pierced her desk and lifted her feet from the ground. Parkinson went for her wand next; I simply Stunned her. Pasty-face Malfoy wasn't moving; he was simply looking scared. That's all he's done since he came back to school after the Easter holidays. I ignored him and blasted his two ugly cronies, Thick and Thicker.

I looked at Parvati, but she shook her head and mouthed, "Padma! Go!" She wouldn't leave her twin, I realised, and the Ravenclaws were in Charms with the Hufflepuffs. I got out of that classroom as fast as I could.

As I ran through the corridor I worried about Parvati. She was now the only seventh-year Gryffindor left in the school.

' _Expecto Patronum_ ,' I shouted as I fled, sending a message to Neville. I needed to get into the room and I couldn't do it without him.

'Basement, near the Potions classroom,' Neville's Patronus told me seconds later. I cursed, I'd been heading upstairs.

What would we do without the lovely Neville?

\------------

As I sit in this room, my home for a week, I recall our escape from the school (though we are still in the school) and our subsequent rescue of Seamus. I suddenly realise that I meant what I said to Carrow: "I want to be an Auror." I really do want to track down and capture Dark wizards. I want to do something important, I want to be someone. I want to be a brave Gryffindor like Harry and Ron and Hermione, Like Neville and Seamus.

Harry and Luna are back and they have news for us. Snape is gone, the Carrows are captured, and we're fighting. We stand and leave our hide-out for the Great Hall. That's when I notice that Luna and Dean are holding hands.

Just when I thought that my life could not get any stranger, Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas are holding hands!

* * *

**Fall**

There are Death Eaters and their allies inside the school.

I'm standing on the balcony alongside Parvati and Padma and we are blasting spells down into the Entrance Hall. Parvati has just hit a Death Eater with a Full Body Bind and we think that we are doing well. Then we hear a scream from behind us.

I turn and see a girl collapse; she's a Ravenclaw, a friend of Padma's. I have never seen so much blood.

A bloodstained someone stands over the girl and growls.

No not someone, something bestial, a monster.

Fenrir Greyback parries my hex, and Parvati's and Padma's too. He licks his lips.

'Hello, pretty ones,' he says. His voice is quiet, but somehow it carries over the noise of the battle below. His eyes are cruel pitiless, and lustful; it is the lust of a sadist preparing to do his worst.

'Tasty, tasty, little morsels.' He leers at us. 'Who wants to be first?' He licks a bloody claw.

The twins are between me and the werewolf. Padma is staring at the dead girl, staring at the still flowing blood, and sobbing; she isn't concentrating on the danger. I must protect my friends. I raise my wand, scream, and charge towards Greyback. He uses his wand to parry, not to attack. He wants to get physical, to bite, to scratch, to tear flesh. Parvati squeals as Greyback leaps towards her.

I have already decided that he is not going to reach her. I will not allow him to hurt her. Unthinking instinct takes over and I jump at him. Greyback and I collide in mid-air and we tumble. I hit the balustrade. Weakened by spells, the stonework collapses with a loud crack and we are falling.

My abdomen is on fire, and my robes feel wet. The beast has clawed me. As I fall, I watch my attacker fall too. He is now several feet away. Unlike me he went over the balustrade not through it. His unimpeded trajectory carries him almost across the hall. Through my pain I watch my torn robes wafting, they are drenched with my blood. I am flailing, falling uncontrolled. Greyback is twisting, cat-like, poised and already ready. I land very badly and I hear my own bones breaking as I hit the ground. He lands on all fours like the beast he is and charges towards me.

\------------

Bizarrely, as I lie on the floor in agony, I remember a Quidditch conversation with my first real boyfriend.

'Have you ever fallen off your broom, Won-won?'

'Loads of times, Lavender.'

'Does it hurt?'

'No, falling off a broom doesn't hurt.'

'It doesn't?'

'No, it's the sudden stop when you hit the ground; that hurts a lot.'

Oh, how we laughed.

\------------

I am smiling at that memory as I try to raise my head, but moving is agony. I decide to stop moving and that's when I discover that not moving is agony, too. Seeing my own blood on my robes is worrying, but Greyback is charging to attack and I am too dazed to defend myself. Soon there will be no more pain and nothing more for me to worry about. Then, suddenly, someone blasts Greyback and he flies away from me. Before he can regain his feet Professor Trelawney hits him with a crystal ball.

She didn't tell me about any of this in Divination. I wonder why? Why didn't she know about this battle? I'm confused. I decide that it is finally time for me to close my eyes.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'Don, Don! She's awake!' I hear my mother's voice the moment I struggle to open my eyes. Pink and green blurs slowly resolve into green walls and my parents' faces. Mum is holding one of my hands. I feel Dad's beefy and calloused hands envelop the other one.

'How do you feel, Princess Vanda?' Dad asks gruffly.

Princess Vanda! Merlin, he hasn't called me that for—how long—a dozen years at least. I must be in a bad way.

'Like I've been disembowelled by a werewolf,' I tell him honestly. My voice is hoarse, and croaky. He starts to cry.

He's my dad, he doesn't cry. He picks me up and dusts me down and hugs me and kisses me better. Why isn't he kissing me better? I want to be better.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I cannot stand. Standing causes the curse wounds to reopen, not that they are fully closed anyway. I am very slowly bleeding to death. Blood Replenishing potions will keep me alive for years, if this is living.

But I'm Lavender Brown. I'm always cheerful so I tell my parents and my friends that I'm fine; no, really, I'm fine, honest. Seamus wants me to know that he's going to stand by me, that he will always be there for me. I tell him that I am likely to be stuck in this wheelchair until I die and, anyway, I was going to finish with him after the battle. But he's a stubborn fool and he does not believe me. He thinks I'm being foolishly noble, and he stays, despite the fact that I tell him that he's the one being foolishly noble.

I go to the funerals and try to convince myself that I am better off than Colin and Fred and the dozens of others who were killed. But am I? Curse scars never heal fully and mine are deeper than Bill Weasley's.

Ron's eldest brother visits me and tries to tell me that things will get better. He must have been gorgeous before he got those scars. I used to be pretty once, too.

And always, Seamus fusses. Why won't he leave me alone? I cannot walk, but that does not mean that I've suddenly become helpless and stupid.

Everyone I meet asks me, "Are you okay?" and I always answer, "Yes," because I am okay. No one ever asks me, "Are you happy?" Okay and happy are certainly not the same thing, and I don't think that I could answer "yes" to that question.

Would I be better off dead? I don't think so; I think that this is better, just.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I apply for a job in the Auror Office, but they turn me down. Harry pleads my case, but I am in a wheelchair so I cannot even take part in the physical tests. Head Auror Robards will not allow me onto the course. I tell the old fool that he couldn't pass the physical himself these days. He needs a stick to walk and he's overweight. Unsurprisingly, that does not do my chances any good.

Parvati visits often; she is training to be a Healer. I think that she wants to find a cure for me. I hope that she can, and I try to survive on that hope.

The ice-maiden visits, too. Susan Bones shares her Auror course notes with me and somehow, for some reason, I become her study partner. I tell her that if she fancies me, she's out of luck because I'm only interested in blokes. She laughs at me.

"Not everything in the world is about boys and sex, Lavender," Susan tells me.

"No, there are clothes and fashion and make-up to think about, too!" I tell her, and she laughs again. We argue about having fun and working hard.

Susan argues with me, how wonderful that is. Not even Parvati argues with me these days, and I miss it. Everyone is frightened of offending me.

I am a porcelain figure, dropped and broken and not mended properly. Everyone thinks that I'm fragile. I soon discover that I can be vile to people, and they take it, because "it's the wounds talking". But Merlin, I miss the friction, the barbs and the jokes and the banter and the flirting. I really miss the flirting. No one flirts with me anymore, not even Seamus.

Susan always argues; we disagree about almost everything from boys to hairstyles. She wore a plait at school, right up until the day she left. Now her hair is in a bun. A bun exactly like McGonagall's, for pity's sake! She's gone from little girl to old maid with nothing in between! But in between our arguments I learn a lot from Susan about Auror work. I can't do any of the physical stuff, but I could pass the rest of the Auror course, I'm certain of that.

I keep trying to fix Susan up with a bloke, but she resists every attempt. She wants to "wait for the right one to arrive." I tell her that boys aren't buses and she should be out there hunting, and having fun while she does. She tells me that she is having fun.

People, even Parvati, start calling Susan my friend; perhaps she is. Susan does not fuss like Seamus. She's blunt and honest and never condescending and she always tells me off when I try to use my wheelchair as an excuse.

She makes me feel better.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Almost two years later, I walk up to Mum and Dad's front door; they are waiting for me. Dad looks worried.

'How are you, Lavender?' he asks.

'The good news is that I've found the cure for werewolf-curse scars, the bad news is that I'm a...'

'I know what you are, Princess.' He interrupts me, because he doesn't want to hear the word. He doesn't want his daughter to say the words "I'm a werewolf." I knew that it would be like this, I was warned.

'How are you, better, or worse?' he asks.

'Better, I think,' I tell him.

He hugs me, and we both start to cry.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later I am at a Ministry Ball with Seamus and he's trying to make me feel guilty. He's waited for me for two years. Now that I'm better, he's had his reward, but I still do not want to be his girlfriend. Two wasted years; I warned you, Seamus, I simply do not fancy you, sorry. I've told you dozens of times. You thought that it was "the wounds talking," but the words were coming out of my mouth.

At the ball, I get rather drunk and I meet a handsome and broad-shouldered wizard. His name is Tony, although that no longer matters. He buys me drinks and dances with me and is taller than Seamus (but not as tall as Ron). He takes me home with him and I think that Seamus has finally got the message. Susan tells me that I'm a fool, and Parvati agrees, but they are wrong. I know what I'm doing.

Mum and Dad (especially Dad) are not happy about the headlines, but I'm feeling better, I think.


	13. Seamus Awake

**Seamus Awake**

I seem to have been out in the grounds for an eternity. I haven't seen Dean for at least an hour and it's longer, a lot longer, since I saw Lavender.

She was with the Patil twins, and they'll stick together. I try to reassure myself. They were inside the school; they will be safe in the castle. Out here there are trolls, giants, Acromantula and Death Eaters, but inside things should still be relatively calm. My girlfriend should be safe, unlike me.

Lavender is finally mine. The first time I asked her out, at the Yule Ball, I was so nervous that I threw up in front of her. I thought that she'd never speak to me again. Then last year she was crawling all over Ron. It was agony. I wanted to ask her out right after she and Ron split up. But Dean was really depressed about his break-up with Ginny, and things only got worse when she jumped on Harry. So I waited. And then Professor Dumbledore was killed. No one can try to chat up a girl at a funeral. But I managed to give Lavender a shoulder to cry on.

I think that was when she began to doubt Professor Trelawney, too. 'Why didn't she know?' Lavender asked over and over again as we sat and watched our wonderful, mad, Headmaster being laid to rest. I held her hand and I comforted her and she hugged me. Just before we got on the train home she kissed my cheek. When we got back to school this year, I finally plucked up the courage to ask her out.

I wonder if Lavender will cry at my funeral, because I can't see any way out of this. I'm trapped!

There is a Death Eater in front of me. He's sheltering behind one of many large lumps of stone strewn across the Hogwarts grounds. Some, like the one he's hiding behind, are parts of the castle wall brought down by the battle. Others, like the one I have taken cover behind, are boulders thrown by giants. Soon, one of us is going to have to make a move.

I decide that it will be me. Trying not to make a sound I roll backwards, away from the boulder. Almost immediately I find a hollow made by another bouncing boulder. I silently slither sideways towards a different stone shelter, another large lump of masonry. I'm still alive; the Death Eater must not have seen me move. I peer cautiously out from behind my new shelter and wait.

It's three o'clock in the morning and I'm wide awake. The last time I was awake at this time in the morning it was because Lavender had sneaked into my dorm to spend the night with me. And it was _my_ dorm. It had been more than half-empty for the entire year. Ron, Harry and Dean had never been in it and Neville had gone into hiding the night before. That was just over a month ago, and it was the best night of my life.

I wonder how Ron will take the news about me and Lavender. Lavender told me that when they were together, he was lovely and he made her laugh, but that he really fancied Hermione and that was why they broke up.

We came very close to arguing about that. I told her that she was crazy. Ron and Hermione fancy each other? How ridiculous an idea is that? I told Lavender that it’s only Harry who keeps them together. They've been constantly bickering since they were eleven. To my surprise, she agreed. "Bickering like an old married couple," she told me. She has a point, I suppose, but I still don't believe her.

I really need to talk to Dean. Neville is okay, but it's been weird this year with just the two of us in the dormitory. I have missed Dean and his jokes. Neville hasn’t been great company; he’s been really intense. He was devastated when Luna was taken from the train at Christmas, and when Ginny didn't come back after Easter, he went a bit crazy. That was when he really started making his mouth go. He was forced into hiding the day after term started.

Neville is our leader. I remember the look of amazement on Dean's face when I told him that. Just after Harry arrived, before this battle started, I told Dean what had been happening at school. "Neville ... our Neville ... Neville Longbottom? He's your leader?" Dean asked. I laughed at his expression and tried to persuade him that it was true.

Neville is our leader and he gives us a lot of good advice about tactics and stuff. He's almost like another Harry. But despite that, or possibly because of it, I can't talk to Nev about girls. Poor old Neville, I don't suppose that he's ever even kissed a girl, although I've seen a surprisingly large number of girls looking admiringly at him this year. Neville Longbottom, girl magnet, what a laugh!

I need to talk to Dean. I need to find out about Luna, too. Dean was holding her hand. Dean snogged Ginny Weasley (and lived), but now he's holding hands with the loony herself. How did that happen? Maybe her insanity is contagious.

I need to tell Dean about me and Lavender too. She made me promise not to tell anyone what we'd done, that we'd done _it_ , but Dean isn't "anyone", he's my best friend. Telling him doesn't count. I wonder what he'll say...

The stone I had rolled slithered away from explodes, so I stop dreaming and peer out from behind my new shelter. The Death Eater stands and stares towards my last hiding place. He's looking for my bloody corpse and he still hasn't seen me.

' _Confringo_ ,' I shout, and the stone in front of him explodes, too. The force of the explosion sends him tumbling across the lawn. He's bleeding badly, but still moving. He struggles to stand.

' _Stupefy_ ,' I shout, and he slumps to the ground.

' _Protego_ ,' someone sings, and suddenly I'm surrounded by a Shield Charm. There is a sound like thunder right above my head. When I look up, I see that a giant's calloused and dirty-toenailed foot is hovering inches above my head. It's not a pretty sight. That's when I discover that Shield Charms do not protect against smell. I will never complain about Ron's socks again.

I look around for my saviour. She smiles and waves happily. It is loony Luna herself. I cast my own Shield Charm to help her, and she immediately dismisses hers. The giant is stamping, and my spell almost fails. Suddenly, I'm struggling to hold the giant's foot away from my head.

I'm wondering what to do when Luna silently flicks her wand. She lifts the slab of wall I'd been hiding behind and throws it at the giant's head. It hits with a hollow thud and the giant stumbles backwards and falls.

'Thanks, Luna,' I say, dismissing my charm.

'You're welcome,' she replies. Her voice is calm and polite, it's an acknowledgement of the fact I've thanked her, but she makes it sound as though saving my life is as inconsequential as passing me the sugar. 'Have you seen Colin Creevey?' she asks. 'Justin asked me to help find him. No one has seen him for hours.'

'He joined us at the start of the battle, Luna, but that was hours ago. We got separated, but he'll probably be okay. The last time I saw him he was with that pink-haired Auror—Tonks.'

'Nymphadora Lupin is dead,' Luna says. 'And so is Professor Lupin. Professor Flitwick found them in the grounds. I hope that Colin isn't dead too. That would be very sad.' For the briefest moment Luna's face creases into a frown.

She is frighteningly matter-of-fact about death. Lupin's dead? Merlin! He was probably the best Defence against the Dark Arts Professor we ever had. He was the only one, apart from Moody of course, who actually knew what he was doing. Lupin taught us a lot. So did Harry, but we don't know enough. If Lupin's dead then, hell, we're probably all dead! We just don't know it yet.

'Why don't we see if he's hiding somewhere further out in the grounds?' I suggest. I need to do something, anything except think about my probably very short future. Luna agrees and we slowly and carefully move away from the castle. Then I take my chance.

'So tell me, you and Dean?' I ask.

'What about me and Dean?'

'Are you going out with him? I saw you holding his hand, when you left the Room of Requirement.'

'He is a very nice boy, isn't he?' she says, but she does not answer my question.

We don't have an opportunity to finish our conversation because Ernie Macmillan shouts: 'Seamus, Luna, over here.'

We run over to help him. As we approach, we feel the Dementors before we see them, and then, in the blackness we see Harry, Ron and Hermione, too. They are in trouble, but between us, we manage to drive the Dementors away.

Then the giant comes back for more and we're back in combat. Will this madness never end?


	14. Bad Faith

**Bad Faith**

'Are you sure there's no troll blood in your family?' the dirty, pale-faced and frightened-looking blond asked acidly as he staggered under the weight of his soot-blackened companion.

The seventh floor corridor walls were shaking. A painting fell from the wall and landed face down on the floor. The painting's subject, a full bearded wizard wearing a tartan tam o' shanter, sprinted into the next painting.

'Re-hang me,' the portrait demanded of the two young men.

While a frightened Draco Malfoy looked frantically around for the source of the voice, his companion simply put his foot through the fallen canvas; he then broke the frame for good measure. Gregory Goyle laughed vindictively at the angry screams of the portrait.

Draco stared down in bewilderment at the broken frame. Goyle, meanwhile, clenched his huge ham-like fist and swung it around hard. There was a loud crack as Goyle's knuckles connected with Draco's left ear. The slim blond boy staggered sideways and his knees buckled. Unexpectedly floored by his fellow Slytherin, Draco whimpered.

'Crabbe?' Goyle asked threateningly. His huge hands remained menacingly clenched.

'He's dead. He conjured _Fiendfyre_ and couldn't stop it. We're lucky to be alive,' said Draco, trying to hide his pain and regain control of his deranged companion. 'I dragged you out. I saved your life, Goyle! You should be grateful.' Draco's plea was met by a disdainful sneer from the lumbering hulk.

'Need wand,' demanded Goyle fiercely, holding out his hand.

'Crabbe knocked mine out of my hand when we were in the room of hidden things, it's gone,' Draco whimpered.

'Your fault,' Goyle grunted. 'Wha' 'appened t' the Mudblood 'n Potter? Did yer kill 'em?'

Draco looked at Gregory Goyle in amazement. That was two sentences in a row from the big oaf, and they almost made sense. He needed to remind the moronic ox who was in charge.

'They escaped! I've just told you that Crabbe knocked my wand out of my hand, you idiot! And Potter disarmed you! Don't you remember?' drawled Draco, failing to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Goyle raised his fist again.

'Don't hit me! I'm on your side, remember?' begged Draco.

Goyle simply raised his fist higher. As a frightened Draco tried to push himself away, as he slithered across the floor, Goyle kicked him in the ribs.

'Didn't hit, kicked,' said Goyle, chuckling at the subtlety of his joke. Draco moaned in pain and clutched his side.

'Crabbe's dead, your fault. Yer shouldn't've stopped us killin' 'em. Yer next, traitor,' Goyle grumbled.

'Don't hurt me, please,' Draco begged.

Goyle merely sneered and raised his fist. A loud explosion some distance behind him shook the walls and floor, and the burly youth turned to look for the source of the blast. It seemed to be around the next corner. While Goyle was distracted, Draco took the opportunity to struggle to his feet and flee. He was, he knew, easily capable of outdistancing Goyle. As he ran along the corridor and round a corner, he looked back to see Goyle lumbering in pursuit.

Draco smiled to himself, confident that he would escape. Goyle was slow in more ways than one. Then, to Draco’s horror, in the distance ahead of him a window broke. Four huge and hairy legs forced their way inside as an Acromantula began tearing at the walls. It was trying to widen the gap, trying to get into the school. Draco stopped and turned. He was trapped between the spider and Goyle, who had also halted.

Goyle glared. It was a thunder-filled look of murderous hatred, and Draco realised he had no chance of talking his way to freedom. There was a crash, and Draco looked back to see that the giant spider had succeeded in its attempt. It was inside the school, and scuttling towards him. Draco trembled in terror, convinced that he was going to die. When he turned back to plead desperately with his former companion he discovered that Goyle was already fleeing; he followed his former companion as quietly as he could.

As they went back past the room of hidden things, Draco saw a chance. He accelerated, dodged around the lumbering Goyle and sprinted ahead.

'I don't have to be faster than the Acromantula, just faster than you!' he shouted spitefully over his shoulder.

Draco continued to accelerate and he was drawing away from Goyle when, halfway along the rubble-strewn corridor, he passed a huge hole in the wall. Not far beyond it a red-headed body lay carefully hidden in an alcove.

Sliding to a hasty halt, Draco looked at the corpse. It was a Weasley twin. He had no idea which one, but it didn't matter. There might be a wand on the body. He looked back. Goyle was not far behind him, and was closing quickly. Realising that he did not have time to search the corpse, he ran. He looked ahead worriedly, hoping that he'd be able to reach the next corner before Goyle found a wand if there was one to find. He put on a desperate spurt of speed, rounded the corner, and almost ran into the other Weasley twin. He was with a buxom round-faced girl with shoulder-length corn-coloured hair. He didn't recognise the girl, though there seemed to be something vaguely familiar about her.

The twin examined him carefully, wand ready, and Draco was thankful that he was still wearing his school robes.

'Don't hurt me, I'm on your side,' begged Draco. 'I haven't got a wand.'

George Weasley looked at his companion.

'Draco Malfoy, Slytherin,' the girl said. 'He's a creep; he was in my year.' Draco stared at the girl. She was in his year? Who was she? She was neither Slytherin nor Gryffindor, he was certain of that. 'He's the one who almost killed Katie with that cursed necklace.' she added spitefully.

Malfoy looked at the girl again and recognition dawned, she was that timid and stupid Hufflepuff half-blood: Abbot. As he looked at the girl in astonishment, the twin punched him in the right eye, and he again fell to the floor. Weasley looked scornfully down at him before running to the corner with the Abbot girl.

'Fred?' the twin yelled, ignoring Malfoy and staring in disbelief up the corridor. 'No! Fred! Leave him alone!'

Malfoy watched the twin raise his wand, presumably aiming at Goyle, and took the opportunity to escape. Pulling aside a tapestry, he took a short cut down to the second floor and slipped through a secret door and into another corridor. To his horror, another Weasley was sprinting towards him. It was the bespectacled one, the idiotic former Head Boy. He looked wild and out of control.

'It wasn't me, I found him like that,' Draco shouted at the approaching figure, holding out his arms to show that he was wandless. 'Don't hurt me; I'm on your side.' The Weasley waved his arm to knock Draco aside and his flailing hand caught Draco a painful blow on the right ear.

Draco staggered sideways and watched the Weasley sprinting towards the stairs leading down to the Entrance Hall. Uncertain where to go or what to do, he decided to follow. Moving cautiously down the corridor, he heard spell-fire ahead. He had walked into the battle.

The fighting seemed to be everywhere. Scuttling nervously past several combats, Draco cautiously made his way towards the Entrance Hall. If he could reach his parents, then he'd be safe. _He'd lost his mother's wand! Now no one in the family had a wand! But she'd forgive him, wouldn't she? After all, it wasn't his fault, it was Crabbe's._ He reached the main stairs and was halfway down when he was spotted.

'Another Hogwarts student who thinks he can defeat the Dark Lord.' The Death Eater raised his wand and Draco cursed the fact that he was still in his school robes.

'I'm Draco Malfoy, I'm on your side,' he begged. Then, to his astonishment, someone stunned the Death Eater. He looked up gratefully, only to be punched on the nose.

_'That's the second time we've saved your life, you two-faced bastard,'_ * Ron Weasley shouted from somewhere close.

Draco carefully felt his thin, pointed nose, it was bleeding profusely and he suspected that it was broken. He stumbled tearfully down the stairs. Weasley had saved him, and then broken his nose. In a way, he told himself, that was a good thing; it wouldn't do for him to be in any way indebted to the filthy blood-traitor.

Once in the Entrance Hall Draco looked out into the castle grounds. The area outside the entrance was a seething mass of duellers, giants, trolls and giant spiders, and he was wandless. As he watched he realised that, even with a wand, he'd never be able to get through that raging combat unscathed.

There was only one thing he could do; it was time to hide. His decision made, Draco slipped stealthily across the entrance hall and crept down the stairs to the dungeon corridor. Once there, he cautiously made his way towards the Slytherin Common Room. As he turned the final corner, he discovered that the route to his refuge was blocked by a beautiful woman with silvery-blonde hair.

They stared at each other in surprise, and he recognised her. It was that silly French girl, the Beauxbatons champion, the part-veela freak. A man stepped out from behind her. To Draco’s horror it was another Weasley, the one whom Greyback had scarred.

'Don't hurt me, I'm on your side,' begged Draco. 'I haven't got a wand.' He held up his empty hands.

The Weasley did not attack.

'I'm hurt, I was looking for somewhere to hide,' Draco explained.

'The only place down here is the Slytherin Common Room,' the Weasley said suspiciously. Then a silver weasel Patronus arrived.

'Seventh floor, the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy, as soon as you can,' the weasel spoke in a mature male voice, but the message ended with a distraught sob. The blonde girl and the scar-faced man looked at each other in white-faced horror.

'Someone's dead! Ginny was on the seventh floor!' said scar-face. He stared into Draco's face and, suddenly wolf-like, bared his teeth. Draco took a fear-filled step backwards.

'You knew! But you weren't going to tell me,' he accused. 'Who?'

'One of the twins,' squealed Draco involuntarily. He was terrified by the scarred and snarling creature in front of him. The Weasley's fist lashed out angrily, connected with Draco's jaw, and everything went black.

* * *

Draco had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He was groggily staggering back to his feet when the Dark Lord's voice rang out, announcing a ceasefire. He wondered whether to risk trying to rejoin his parents.

After some thought, he decided to try. Anything was better than being stuck here with the suicidal defenders. Stumbling dazedly back up to the entrance hall, he reached the main door as a thickset man with a heavily bandaged hand entered. The man was dragging an unconscious girl.

'Gi’ me a hand, laddie,' the man ordered. 'We need to get this wee lassie up to the Hospital Wing.'

Before replying, Draco looked out into the grounds. He saw dozens of defenders milling around the entrance. Many of them were students, and most of the students were the troublemakers he had given detentions to, or reported to the Carrows. They would recognise him, he knew, and they would definitely not be friendly. He was trapped, he realised. He looked at the man with the bandaged hand, nodded, took the girl's legs and lifted.

'Malfoy!' someone yelled in horror when he entered the Hospital Wing. Draco looked up, worried, but it was only one of the Hufflepuffs, a whining Half-blood named Hopkins. The boy had always wanted to be a Healer. He was getting his wish.

'I haven't got a wand,' implored Draco. Hopkins simply stared contemptuously at him.

'I'm hurt, too,' he looked hopefully at Madam Pomfrey. The school nurse examined him brusquely.

'A broken nose, and few bruises, that's all!' she snapped. 'You'll have to wait.'

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without speaking. His usual arguments; that he was Head Boy, that his father was rich and powerful and that his family were very well connected would simply get him hurt. Besides, everyone knew that this was no longer true. The Malfoys were out of favour. The Dark Lord was living in their house and spending what was left of their fortune. Draco backed against the wall and stood there, watching, but saying and doing nothing. Perhaps he'd be safe here?

Then, to his horror, Longbottom and the Weasley girl arrived. They were carrying a badly bleeding girl on a stretcher. Draco watched them carefully. He had spent six years taunting the fat and useless Longbottom, but this year Longbottom had turned into another Potter. The filthy blood-traitor was argumentative, annoying, and was always bleating on about the rights of Mudbloods and Muggles.

Draco had tried to hex the Muggle-loving blood-traitor Longbottom several times during the year. He'd failed every time. He had lost the only duel that they'd had, and had only been saved from a serious hexing by the arrival of Professor McGonagall, who had given _him_ detention. The Headmaster had countermanded the stupid old bat of course, but for some reason, despite Draco’s protests, Professor Snape hadn't punished Longbottom.

A few days after that incident Draco, with Crabbe and Goyle's help, had managed to ambush Longbottom. But dozens of students had rushed to Longbottom's aid. Worse, the day after that he'd been forced to go to the hospital wing because someone—someone in Slytherin House—had smeared Bubotuber pus inside his robes.

Draco did not understand Longbottom. He was a pureblood, as was the Weasley girl, but blood status seemed to mean nothing to them. They associated with Half-bloods and Mudbloods, they treated the filthy scum as though they were equals. Malfoy watched them cautiously. Fortunately, they were busy and they hadn't seen him.

The Weasley girl and Longbottom had deposited the injured girl on one of the two unoccupied beds. They were talking quietly. Draco decided to move closer. It was possible that they knew what Potter was doing, where he was. If they did, then he had a chance. That was information the Dark Lord would be pleased to receive, it would improve his standing, improve his chances of survival.

He crept cautiously forwards, watching and attempting to eavesdrop; he needed something, anything, to take back to the Dark Lord. Longbottom, nodded in reply to an unheard question and the colour fell from the Weasley girl's face. Suddenly she was pale and frightened. Then she slapped Longbottom's face, hard.

'You bloody idiot, you let him go!' she screamed.

Draco chuckled gleefully at Longbottom's misfortune. That was a mistake; he turned his chuckle into a cough, but it was too late. Weasley had heard and she was marching towards him, her eyes blazing with hate.

'Don't hurt me, I haven't got a wand,' begged Draco.

As the girl approached he backed away hurriedly, only stopping when his back was against the wall. She was at least six inches shorter than he was, but her anger somehow made her even more frightening than her scar-faced brother. She was like a lioness; she was even growling, and when she raised her hand he cowered in terror. While he gazed fearfully at her upraised hand, she kneed him in the groin. Her knee connected with enough force to lift his feet from the ground and he collapsed to the floor, whimpering in agony.

'Well, who'd have thought it! You do have balls after all,' Ginny Weasley snapped.

'Come on, Nev, let's try to find more survivors.' She turned and strode determinedly from the ward.

Draco remained curled in a heap on the floor. A long time later, after the pain had subsided to an ache and a humiliating memory, he risked peering around the room. He was simply being ignored by the busy occupants of the Hospital Wing.

He did not sit up until the Dark Lord told everyone that Potter was dead. Draco looked around hopefully, but everyone stared their hatred at him, and soon afterwards the battle noisily recommenced. He did not try to leave. He was in a safe place.

Eventually, the castle fell silent, and then the whispers began. "Potter was alive. Voldemort was dead. It was over." Draco did not know what to do, whether to believe it or not. Madam Pomfrey and others were continuing to look after the seriously injured, too busy to celebrate or even find out whether the rumours were true.

If Voldemort was dead, what had happened to his parents? They were wandless and alive only at the whim of the Dark Lord. If his parents were dead, if the Mudbloods had won...

Then another Weasley arrived, one Draco had never seen before. He was a squat, burly and weather-beaten man with long and untidy hair. Draco remained seated on the floor, watching warily.

'Draco Malfoy?' the Weasley asked.

'Don't hurt me, I haven't got a wand,' begged Draco.

'Why should I hurt you?' enquired the Weasley as he examined Draco's bruised face.

'The others all did,' admitted Draco suspiciously.

'The others?' asked Charlie Weasley curiously. 'Who broke your nose?'

'Ron.'

'Your black eye?'

'That was the twin,' Draco admitted.

'Jaw?'

'He had a scarred face and was with that blonde Veela-freak,' said Malfoy. The Weasley bristled, but said nothing.

'Not mild-mannered Percy though?'

Malfoy rubbed a bruised ear and the Weasley chuckled.

'What about our little Ginny?' he asked curiously.

Malfoy involuntarily moved his hands to protect his groin and Charlie Weasley laughed manically, almost crazily. It was as though if he didn't laugh, he would be crying.

'Well, Draco, your parents are looking for you, and I'm here to take you to them, not to thump you.' Charlie said, swinging out a calloused hand. Draco dodged it, and hit the side of his head on a bed.

Charlie just laughed louder.

'Dope! I was going to help you up, not hit you. Your parents are in the Great Hall.' Charlie turned and strode from the Hospital Wing. Draco hauled himself to his feet and scampered after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * indicates a direct quote from Deathly Hallows p.518 (UK Edition).


	15. Die Dumb

**Die Dumb**

The young man rolled onto his side, retched, and coughed. He hawked loudly and spat soot-black phlegm onto the floor.

He was a burly black-haired brute with no discernable forehead. Both he and his pasty-faced blond companion wore singed and fire-blackened school robes.

The pale young man, Draco Malfoy, had already hauled himself to his feet. He stepped back in distaste as he watched Gregory Goyle struggle to stand. Goyle staggered and placed a steadying hand on Draco’s shoulder.

‘Are you sure that there’s no troll blood in your family?’ Draco asked acidly. Goyle vindictively pushed down hard, putting as much weight as possible onto his companion. Draco’s his knees buckled and he struggled to stay upright.

There was the unmistakeable sound of spellfire coming from the castle grounds. The walls of the seventh floor corridor, where the two were standing, were shaking so much that a painting fell from the wall. It landed face down on the floor and the painting’s subject, a full bearded wizard wearing a tartan tam o’ shanter immediately appeared in the next painting.

‘Re-hang me,’ the portrait ordered.

His head buzzing with rages and confusion Goyle simply put his foot through the fallen canvas, taking vindictive pleasure from the reaction. Ignoring the angry screams of the painted figure he then broke the frame, and laughed cruelly.

As Malfoy looked down at the broken frame in bewilderment, Goyle clenched his fist and swung it around with the unstoppable force of the Hogwarts Express. There was a loud crack when it connected with Draco Malfoy’s left ear and floored his fellow Slytherin. Revelling in the pleasant pain in his knuckles, Goyle glowered at the pale-faced coward.

‘Crabbe?’ Goyle asked.

‘He’s dead. He conjured Fiendfyre and couldn’t stop it. We’re lucky to be alive,’ said Draco pleadingly. ‘I managed to save your life, Goyle, you should be grateful.’

‘Need wand,’ Goyle demanded, holding out his hand.

‘Crabbe knocked mine out of my hand when we were in the room of hidden things, it’s gone,’ whimpered Draco.

‘Wha’ ‘appened t’ the Mudblood ‘n Potter? Did yer kill ‘em?’ Goyle grunted.

‘They escaped! I’ve just told you that Crabbe knocked my wand out of my hand, you idiot! And Potter disarmed you! Don’t you remember?’ said Malfoy contemptuously.

Goyle growled and raised his fist again. Draco was a sly, sneaky and vindictive liar, he always had been and he always would be. But he had been useful in the past. He had shielded Goyle from the wrath of several teachers, but now, the Malfoys were out of favour with the Dark Lord. With the Carrows in charge of discipline Goyle had found new allies, and many pleasurable new ways to vent his aggression.

He no longer needed Malfoy, whose strength was in his tongue. Baiting and insulting filthy Mudbloods, half-bloods and Muggle-lovers was something Draco enjoyed. Goyle preferred a more physical approach. As they were both wandless, there was no contest. After years of snide sniping, Goyle could finally teach the snivelling little Malfoy a lesson. He chuckled in anticipation.

‘Don’t hit me! I’m on your side, remember?’ Draco begged.

Goyle cracked his knuckles loudly and smiled cruelly. As a frightened Draco tried to push himself away, Goyle kicked him in the ribs. 

‘Didn’t hit, kicked,’ said Goyle. He chuckled at the subtlety of his joke while Draco simply cried in pain and clutched his side.

‘Crabbe’s dead, your fault. Yer shouldn’t’ve stopped us killin’ ‘em. You’re next, traitor,’ Goyle grumbled.

A loud explosion some distance behind Goyle caused the walls and floor to shake alarmingly. Goyle turned to look for the source of the explosion. When he turned back he discovered that Draco had taken the opportunity to flee. Cursing under his breath, Goyle lumbered in pursuit, but Malfoy was both fast and slippery, and he was getting away.

Goyle was built for strength, not speed and he was wondering whether to continue the pursuit when, in the distance ahead of the fleeing Malfoy, a window broke. An Acromantula began tearing at the window frame, pulling at the walls in an attempt to get into the school. Malfoy slithered to a halt and turned. Goyle stopped running and watched.

Goyle glared, grimly gleeful, Malfoy was trapped.

When the spider finally broke in through the window and scuttled forwards, Goyle finally remembered that, like Malfoy, he was wandless. He turned and fled back in the direction they had come. It was a pity that he couldn’t wait to watch that arrogant smart-mouth die, but without a wand, he needed to get as far as possible from the giant spider.

He ran back past the room of hidden things. As he did so, he was surprised by Malfoy dodging quickly around him and sprinting ahead. Goyle tried to grab him, but Malfoy was much too fast.

‘I don’t have to be faster than the Acromantula, just faster than you,’ Malfoy shouted spitefully as he again outdistanced Goyle. Gregory didn’t waste time trying to figure out what Malfoy meant. He simply tried to catch his quarry. It wasn’t going to be easy, as Malfoy skipped rapidly over the rubble filling the corridor

Malfoy dashed past a huge gaping hole in the castle wall and then stopped. For a second, Goyle thought that he had a chance to reach his prey. Grunting in effort, he closed the gap. Malfoy was looking down at something, at someone. But before Goyle could get his hands on him, Malfoy fled like the coward he was, and sprinted towards the next corner.

Upon reaching the point where Malfoy had paused, Goyle saw a red-headed body carefully hidden in an alcove. He stopped. It was one of those Weasleys; perhaps the corpse still had a wand! He bent over the body and began to examine it. He was rifling through the pockets when there was a shout from the end of the corridor. 

‘Fred?’ someone yelled. ‘No! Fred! Leave him alone!’ It was the other twin!

As the twin raised his wand, Goyle abandoned his search of the body and dived over the rubble, trying to find cover. He lay behind broken pieces of castle wall as hexes ricocheted off the walls around him. As he dodged backwards along the shattered corridor, moving from doorway to alcove, he finally remembered that he was heading back towards the giant spider from which he’d been fleeing. Hex after hex flew over his head. The Weasley was insane, firing spells almost at random. The blonde girl with him was trying to calm him down, but if anything she was more dangerous. She moved forwards determinedly and she was taking time to aim. Goyle was rapidly running out of places to dodge into.

He dropped flat behind a large pile of rubble; the wind whistled through the black maw where the castle wall had been blasted in. Goyle clenched his teeth and growled softly. He was angry and frustrated; he had nowhere to go and no wand.

The spider was slowly advancing behind him, the blonde and the crazy Weasley were in front. Then he recognised the girl. She was that useless Hufflepuff half-blood, she’d grown up, and cut off her pigtails, but it was her. He was being attacked by a blood-traitor and a stupid half-blood. And he was wandless! All he could do was throw rocks like some useless Muggle. He hissed in frustration.

In a last desperate act, he looked around for something to throw. Most of the rocks surrounding him were too large to use as weapons. He was searching for something, anything, with which he could defend himself, when a particularly accurate jinx from the blonde forced his head right down. Then he saw them, two heavy-looking old broom shanks buried under the rubble a little further down the corridor. He slithered backwards, grabbed them, and pulled. One broom was broken, but the other would probably fly.

Discarding the broken broom and holding tightly to the other, he rolled sideways and leapt through the hole in the castle wall, straddling the broom as he fell. Goyle heard the Weasley cry in frustration and despair as he made his escape.

As he hurtled towards the ground, he desperately tried to pull the ancient broom out of its dive. It was old and sturdy, but slow and had very limited manoeuvrability. He finally managed to level it only seconds before he hit the ground. Speeding along inches above the grass, he careened into a young boy. Knocking the boy flying and tumbling from the broom, Goyle bounced and rolled along the ground to land only feet from the person he’d hit.

The boy picked himself up clutching his side in pain, gasping for breath and cursing.

‘I think you’ve broken my ribs,’ he wheezed.

Dazed and bruised, Goyle wondered why the boy, who was obviously a Mudblood from his ridiculous Muggle clothing, wasn’t attacking, or running. Instead, the boy was simply trying to identify him.

Goyle was still covered in soot and his school robes were burned and torn. His school robes … Goyle looked down at them and realised that the robes were the reason that the boy had not attacked. He had assumed that they were on the same side. Finally seeing his chance, Goyle stepped forwards, punched the unsuspecting boy in the face, and grabbed his wand.

‘Avada Kedavra,’ he shouted and the boy collapsed, lifeless. Goyle peered happily down at his latest victim. He recognised him at last. It was that annoying, stupid little Gryffindor boy, the one who’d always had a camera with him. Mudbloods really were stupid, and now there was one less in the world.

That was his second, a Muggle, and now a Mudblood; his father would be proud. Goyle smiled. He sought, and found the old broom, remounted, and soared off to look for another dumb Mudblood to kill.

‘Die, dumb,’ he chuckled, remembering what Potter had said outside the room of hidden things. He wondered what Potter had been talking about.

It probably wasn’t important. Potter would soon be dead.


	16. Cornered

**Cornered**

Michael looked out across the debris strewn grounds of Hogwarts and tried to keep calm.

For some reason there was a lull in the fighting. He peered through the gloom; but no matter where he looked, everything was quiet. Michael was all alone in the night, cast adrift in an empty and endless void. Somehow in the confusion of the last attack, he’d lost sight of both Terry and Anthony. The darkness surrounding him was an all-enveloping, stifling cloak trying to suffocate him with its blackness, but it would not succeed. He took several deep breaths and desperately fought down his panic.

Squinting into the blackness, he saw movement in the distance. A lone figure crept carefully towards the castle. Michael did not dare to light his wand. Very early in the battle, he and his friends had discovered that a _Lumos_ spell was a magnet for the enemy. Unfortunately, without illumination he could not identify the stealthily skulking shadow. Was he facing friend or foe?

The figure was moving away from him, away from the great entrance doors to the school. Michael silently stalked the silhouette, relieved that, whoever it was, they had not seen him. The figure was little more than a man-shaped shadow eclipsing the stars peppering the horizon. The unidentified dark shape appeared to be trying to outflank someone else. Michael moved slowly, soundlessly stepping over shattered stonework and cautiously closing on his quarry. As he moved, the figure suddenly stopped and rapidly raised its wand.

‘ _Crucio,_ ’ the harsh croak of the stranger’s voice shattered the silence as he shouted the curse.

Instantly, pain coursed through Michael’s limbs and he collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.

The unbearable fire flowing through his nervous system transported Michael back to the day, almost two weeks earlier, when he had been chained to the wall in the dungeon.

* * *

‘Michael Corner, Ravenclaw House,’ Amycus Carrow snarled. ‘Blood status?’

‘Ravenclaw!’ Michael told him.

‘Blood status!’ Carrow demanded.

‘None of your damn business, ugly!’ shouted Michael defiantly.

‘ _Crucio!_ ’ Amycus shouted, and for the first time in his eighteen years Michael felt the power of an Unforgivable Curse wielded by someone who enjoyed it, someone who revelled in causing pain. He screamed. When the pain finally stopped Michael slumped forwards on the chains.

‘Michael Corner! Everyone says Ravenclaws are supposed to be clever, but you’re not very clever, are you? You’ve got a very stupid mouth, and a very stupid idea of right and wrong. I’m the teacher, you’re the pupil. I decide who’ll be punished. You freed them kids, sent them up to that Pomfrey woman. That was a bad move, and now you’ve got to be punished. Rule breakers have got to be punished,’ said Amycus.

The squat, ugly wizard was almost dancing with joy as he spoke.

‘You were torturing first years,’ gasped Michael. ‘Why?’

_‘Crucio!’_ Amycus shouted, and again Michael screamed in agony.

‘That’s none o’ your damn business! I’m a Professor, I am! And I’m in charge o’ discipline an’ punishment. If I reckon someone needs to be punished, that’s what happens.’

‘Professor? You’re not even a teacher! You’re an ignorant twisted sadist!’ Michael whispered angrily through his pain and tears.

‘ _Crucio!_ Don’t come the clever Ravenclaw with me, Corner! You’re all the same, Ravenclaws!’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘You think you’re better just because you’re good at exams. Now you’re gonna get what you deserve.’ Amycus leered lopsidedly at Michael as he spoke. Then he giggled; it was an unpleasant gurgle of joyous anticipation.

‘My sister’s on her way. Just wait till she gets here, Corner. We’ll see how long you can stand up to a double dose of Cruciatus Curses,’ Amycus Carrow continued.

As if on cue the cell door opened and Alecto Carrow waddled in. Amycus smiled cruelly.

‘I’ve just been softening him up,’ he told his sister.

‘Corner, isn’t it?’ Alecto asked. ‘One o’ Potters cronies, aren’t you?’

‘He is,’ Amycus confirmed. ‘ _Crucio!_ ’ the Carrows shouted together, and Michael screamed once more.

Michael slumped forwards, his muscles unable to keep him upright. He was no longer able, or willing, to bait the Carrows. The chains which shackled him to the wall were digging painfully into his wrists, but he found that it was a comforting pain, a physical pain. It was a pain of the flesh, unlike the curse, which was an internal anguish akin to having every nerve in his brain and body set on fire.

‘Are you ready for another double dose, Corner? D’you think that you can take it? Think you’re tough? Longbottom’s parents was Aurors, as tough as they come. They took a triple dose, did you know that? Drove them crazy. They’re a couple of useless dribbling nutters stuck in St Mungo’s. You’ll be joining them soon if you’re not a good lad. So why not be a clever Ravenclaw and answer this very easy question. Where’s the troublemaker hiding? Where’s Longbottom?’

‘Behind you,’ Neville said quietly.

Neville Longbottom was white-faced with anger as he stood in the open door to the cell. The Carrows whirled around, but they were much too slow. Neville silently cast two Stunning Spells with such force that both Amycus and Alecto Carrow bounced off two walls before collapsing in an untidy heap on the floor.

Michael shook the tears from his eyes. He’d been rescued, he realised gratefully. His friends had come for him, though he’d hardly dared hope that they would. Anthony Goldstein rapidly undid the chains and Ernie Macmillan and Terry Boot caught him as he slumped forwards. Michael’s limbs would not obey him. Between them, Terry and a pale and visibly shaking Ernie carried him out from the dungeon. Neville, looking more fierce than ever, led the way and Anthony scurried along behind as rearguard.

They carried Michael through several secret passages, up to the second floor and then through a door concealed behind a painting and into, he discovered after he had recovered three days later, the Room of Requirement.

The memory of that pain would probably haunt him forever.

* * *

 _‘Stupefy!’_ Michael heard Terry Boot’s deep bass voice bellow, and the pain receded. Blinking tears from his eyes Michael tried to struggle to his feet. His arms and legs were still shaking and he found himself unable to stand. He remained on his hands and knees, shaking from the memory of the curse.

‘Are you okay, Anthony?’ he heard Terry ask.

‘I will be, thanks, Terry,’ Anthony mumbled. ‘It’s a good thing that you were close at hand; otherwise I think he’d have gone for the kill. Did I hear somebody else screaming, too?’

‘Yes, it was Michael,’ said Terry.

Michael looked up, bewildered. He saw his, tall, broad-shouldered and plain-featured friend, Terry, striding towards him. Short and narrow-faced Anthony Goldstein limped along behind him.

‘Okay, Michael?’ Terry asked, as he reached down and pulled his friend to his feet.

‘Crucio,’ Michael gasped. ‘I feel terrible, but I’ll be okay. What happened to Anthony?’

Terry looked sadly down at his friend. ‘I think I’d better get you both to the hospital wing. Anthony was the one being cursed, Michael, not you.’


	17. Worn Out Boot

**Worn Out Boot**

I stretched my aching muscles as I walked through the Entrance Hall. My back was sore, my legs were tired and I was covered in cuts and bruises. I was weary to my bones. I had just helped Neville take the last of the wounded to the Hospital Wing and I’d checked on my injured friends while I was there.

My two best friends were hurt. I’d been helping Anthony and Michael to get back to the castle when an injured Death Eater had attacked us, attacked Anthony. She was the second one to do so.

The first one had used the Cruciatus Curse on Anthony, He didn’t see me, and I managed to stun him. Anthony and I were helping Michael back to the school when the second one found us. She used a cutting curse I’d never seen before. I managed to deflect the worst of it. But we were struggling to drive her away until Voldemort announced a ceasefire. She retreated, but by then, Anthony had lost a lot of blood.

His wounds were bad, but nowhere near as bad as poor Lavender Brown’s. Anthony’s wounds could be fixed, Madam Pomfrey told us as she examined him. But no one was sure about Lavender. She’d been clawed by Fenrir Greyback, curse scarred! Her scars were deeper than Anthony’s and less likely to heal. The Patil twins were sitting at her bedside, crying. Seamus Finnegan, white-faced, held her hand as if he would never let it go. It made me glad that I didn’t have a girlfriend to worry about.

As I had that thought, I realised that, in fact, I was just as worried as Seamus, but instead of worrying about one person, I was worrying about everyone.

No one was sure whether Michael would recover. “Outside my area of expertise” Madam Pomfrey had admitted to us when we’d explained what had happened when Michael heard the curse being cast. We all knew how the Cruciatus Curse had affected Neville’s parents, but until the battle was underway I’d had no idea how badly the Carrows’ torture had affected poor Michael. Even hearing the Cruciatus Curse being cast affected him. He was a liability in a fight, a danger to us all, and he was clever enough to know it. That fact was eating him up, I knew. When I’d suggested that he keep out of the fighting he had agreed. The old Michael, the one from that long-ago other life two weeks ago, before the Carrows had tortured him, would have argued.

When I left the Hospital Wing Michael left too. He went off with the Patil twins. They were heading down to the Dungeons, to the Potions classroom, where they were going to make more Blood Replenishing Potion. Madam Pomfrey’s stocks were almost gone, and by making more they could be doing something useful, something to help our friends, but something which would keep them out of the fight. Parvati and Padma had not left Lavender’s side since they brought her to the Hospital Wing. They were obviously badly shaken by Lavender’s injuries and the death of Padma’s friend Lillith. Even so, they were desperate to do something to help the wounded.

I was standing in the Entrance Hall, maudlin, moping and fighting my fatigue. I forced myself to move. I had to do something, anything, to keep my mind off things. It was almost dawn. I’d been awake for twenty-four hours and I need my sleep, everyone who knows me knows that I need my sleep. I had to keep busy, otherwise I would simply collapse.

I decided that I would go back out into the grounds again. Neville said that the place had been cleared, that we had found all of the dead and injured. But I had to do something, I had to keep moving.

I almost made it outside, but she stopped me with three words.

‘Terry John Boot.’

Her voice sang; it always did, it still does. It rises and falls, making her instantly recognisable. But it would not matter if it her voice was as flat, boring, and matter-of-fact as Padma’s, she was the only person who ever used my full name. I did not need to turn to name the person who had addressed me.

‘Luna,’ I replied.

She was a remarkable girl. Michael did not like her, not then; he did not understand why she was a Ravenclaw. She was clever, but not in the way Michael was clever. Michael was a brilliant Arithmatician, he knew more about the magic of numbers than I ever would. He wanted to become an Unspeakable, to investigate the basic mysteries of life and magic.

Luna simply looked at everything differently.

‘Come with me,’ said Luna as she gently took my hand. She did that to everyone, I reminded myself. She was a tactile person; it did not mean that she fancied me, no one fancies me. Even my Mum tells me that I’m not the best looking boy in the world. I’m a Ravenclaw, I know what _that_ means when even your mother says it. At least I’m big. Being big and ugly makes people think that you’re tough, so they usually don’t bother you.

I know who I am; I am big, ugly Terry, and I’m the one who ends up talking politely to the plainest friend of Michael’s latest girl. Anthony gets the moderately good-looking one, if there is one. At least that’s what used to happen. Now, Michael does not have a girl, and the only girls who talk to me seem to be members of Dumbledore’s Army.

Luna led me into the Great Hall, the bodies had been moved into classroom three. The injured were up in the Hospital Wing and in conjured beds in the surrounding corridor, because the ward was full.

‘Sit down, please, Terry,’ Luna asked politely, so I sat.

‘You are hungry and thirsty, so you must eat and drink,’ she observed matter-of-factly.

I looked along the table. There was a lot of food; sandwiches and pies, and drinks, both hot and cold. Luna was right, I _was_ hungry and thirsty, it was almost breakfast time and I’d had a very busy night, so I did as Luna asked. She simply watched me eat.

‘You will make a good Auror, Terry,’ she told me. ‘You don’t give up, you don’t stop and you know evil when you see it.’

I gave a non-committal grunt, I wasn’t going to be an Auror; I was going to join the family business. It had been planned ever since I started at Hogwarts. My subjects, everything in my entire life had been planned and discussed with my parents. Everything, that is, apart from my being dragged along to join Dumbledore’s Army by Michael.

Michael went along because Ginny asked him, and she made it clear that she would not be interested in any boy who wasn’t prepared to commit to the Potter cause. Anthony and I went because Michael begged us. He wanted to impress Ginny with the fact that he could recruit, and not simply be recruited. Anthony and I agreed. Michael was our friend and, at the time, Dumbledore’s Army was a bit of fun. It was a chance to get closer to the famous Harry Potter. I had not planned to be involved so deeply. I certainly had not planned for this battle. But does anyone, other than a psychopath, ever plan for a battle?

Luna’s words were the spark which lit the flame in my mind. I would rather be an Auror. I knew that the suffering would not end with the battle. Even that victory would not bring an end to prejudice and Dark Magic. I had seen too many people suffer during that year. Michael did not deserve to be tortured. Silly, giggling, Lavender Brown should not be lying pale and bleeding in a hospital bed. She should be contemptuously ignoring big ugly people like me and gossiping with her girlfriends, talking about gorgeous boys and fashionable robes and whatever else girls talk about. Little Colin Creevey should not be dead. Annoying, funny, crazy Fred Weasley should not be dead.

I might die, too, I knew that. Our situation was more than serious, it was desperate. Why, seventeen years ago, had no one taken the trouble to check if Voldemort was really dead? My generation would do things differently. I had to make certain that they did, and if I survived, I would.

I began planning an argument for my father. If I died, then I would not be joining the family business anyway, so why shouldn’t I do what I wanted to do, if I survived.

‘I will,’ I told Luna, as her my carefully planned life-path suddenly took an unexpected, but strangely welcome turn. Suddenly, I had a meaningful purpose beyond that terrible day.

‘You don’t say much, do you?’ observed Luna. I realised that, other than her name, they were the first words I had spoken to her.

I shook my head, because it was true. It still is, and also because a silent answer to that question is mildly amusing. Luna laughed at my wordless response and her laughter brought a little sunshine into the morose atmosphere in the hall. I suspect that everyone in that room thought that they were going to die, everyone except Luna the eternal optimist.

I wondered if she, like Michael, had been tortured. I knew that she’d been held prisoner in Malfoy Manor and everyone knows what a cruel bully Draco is. His father is, apparently, worse and his mother is the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange. But Luna seemed to be the same as ever. I wondered how she retained her spirit. I would ask her one day, if we survived.

‘Why don’t you say much, Terry?’ she asked. I could have simply shrugged, because that would make Luna laugh, too, but I decided to speak.

‘My Grandma used to tell me: “If you’ve nowt to say, say nowt”,’ I told her. And she laughed again and I laughed with her.

Then Voldemort spoke.

“Harry Potter is dead.”

‘He’s lying,’ Luna told me.

She spoke with such certainty that, despite the fact she spoke from innocent faith, and not knowledge, I believed her.

I nodded my agreement, and she smiled. Together we stood and followed the crowds outside for the final part of the Final Battle.


	18. Falling Angel

**Falling Angel**

I desperately dive between the giant’s legs and cast a blasting spell on his loincloth. Nothing else I’ve tried has worked, but that has got to hurt him!

It does. His loincloth explodes and he collapses to the ground, writhing in agony. I soar high above the battle, looking for another target.

There are giant spiders clambering up the castle walls. They are tearing at the windows, trying to get into the school. One has almost succeeded so I try to blast it off.

‘ _Confringo!_ ’ I shout again. I succeed and the spider falls, but I damage the castle too, so I decide to try something else on the next Acromantula.

_‘Tarantallegra!’_ I shout.

That was one of George’s favourite jinxes, and certainly his most annoying. To my joy, it works. I grin as the spider, legs dancing and flailing, falls to the ground. I continue flying around the castle, finding more spiders and continuing to attack, making them dance and tumble from the walls. I’ve watched five of them plummet to the ground when it happens, I’m hit!

The tail of my broom explodes and I am left holding a shattered and useless piece of wood. I look around as I fall, but I see no sign of my attacker. I have no idea who has destroyed my broom. Then finally, the fear hits me. As I plunge towards the unyielding ground, I throw the useless shaft to one side.

They say your life flashes before your eyes. In my case, it was my love life.

Fred was great, for a while. He was wonderful, funny and attentive at the Yule Ball. We lasted all through the spring and summer terms and then came the summer holidays. That’s when it ended. We didn’t even split up, that’s the most ridiculous thing. There was simply nothing. No dates, no argument, we just stopped seeing each other when we left school for the summer.

On the second day of the summer holidays, I sent him an owl, suggesting that we meet up, but he didn’t reply. I waited two weeks before I wrote a second letter. That was when my stubborn streak took over. I didn’t even send that second letter because I didn’t want to seem too eager.

I don’t remember throwing it away; I wonder what happened to it?

Fred didn’t write to me at all during the holidays. I didn’t see him again until we arrived at Hogwarts for our seventh year. Two Fred-free months and when we met it was as if we’d never been going out with each other. No acknowledgement of six months of kisses and cuddles and jokes and laughter. Just before the end of term, he’d almost managed to persuade me to go all the way. Sometimes, during those lonely summer holidays, I wondered whether things would have been different if I had. But at other times I’d wondered if he’d been as hesitant to make that final step as I had. When I got back to school I was really glad that we hadn’t.

I didn’t share any lessons with Fred in our seventh year, so I only saw him at the Quidditch practices and at DA meetings. Really, I never saw Fred at all. It was always “the twins” who spoke to me, never just Fred.

How can you talk to an ex-boyfriend, how can you even find out if he _is_ an ex-boyfriend if he’s never more than a few feet away from his twin brother?

As I fell, I realised that although Fred was uppermost in my mind, I was really thinking about his twin. George was always there, always in the background. I was remembering the way George used to look at me during our last two years at school. He had always looked a little sad when I was going out with Fred, and in our final year, I often caught him watching me. He’d had an odd expression on his face. As I fell, I suddenly realised what it was; he was watching me in the same way as I was watching Fred.

That was when a conversation I’d had with Alicia, just before the Yule Ball, slipped suddenly into my brain. I had always got on with Alicia, but she had been a little sharp with me that day.

‘Fred doesn’t fancy you, you know. He only asked you out because George does,’ Alicia said.

‘George does what? I’d asked stupidly.

‘George fancies you, so Fred asked you out!’ Alicia had snapped sardonically.

As I spiral earthwards, Alicia’s words join George’s looks to haunt me. Alicia had _really_ fancied Fred, she’d been desperate to go out with him and I’d assumed that she was jealous. But as I fall, hundreds of half remembered actions come unbidden into my mind. George looking sad, George putting a brave face on things, George being sympathetic when the game was going badly.

Fred’s a git! Poor George! Could it really be that Fred didn’t want George to have a girl? Is it possible that Fred simply didn’t want anyone ‘serious’ to come between him and his twin? Fred is the manipulator, the schemer, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t … could he?

Yes!

I have not even thought about Tony, I realise.

I’ve been with Tony almost since the day I left school. We met at the Ministry and we’ve been living together for almost a year now. I thought that I knew him, I thought that I loved him, but when I got Neville’s message, he tried to stop me from coming here.

I couldn’t believe it.

‘It might be dangerous,’ Tony told me, as he begged me not to leave.

‘Might be? MIGHT BE?’ I shouted as I stormed out of our flat. ‘It’s You-bloody-well-Know-Who, you idiot! Of course it will be dangerous!’

‘You might not come back,’ he’d pleaded.

‘I won’t,’ I told him harshly, and I meant it. Suddenly, he wasn’t the kind and caring man who’d showered me with gifts and called me Angel-Angelina. Suddenly, he was simply a wealthy coward. Live or die, I would not be back. I had thought that he’d come with me. But no, not Tony, _it might be dangerous!_ Pillock!

As I fall I realise that, mere hours after I left him, I already don’t know what I saw in him. He was nice, kind, polite and attentive. Why wasn’t that enough? He was unexciting, he was boring and he was dull. Perhaps I needed dull. Perhaps dull is good. If I’d stuck to a humdrum life with unexciting Tony I certainly wouldn’t be falling.

Well! Tony was right. I might not come back. This is it, here comes the ground!

Then I remembered falling off my broom during Quidditch training in my second year at school, my first year on the team. George caught me just before I hit the pitch.

‘Use your wand, you idiot!’ George had shouted as we’d tumbled to the grass together. We were both twelve years old and extremely embarrassed to be “rolling on the ground in each other’s arms” as our Captain, Charlie Weasley, had said with a leer. But despite our mutual embarrassment, George spent weeks afterwards patiently teaching me the Cushioning Charm. That was how I became friends with the twins.

Good old George!

I cast the Cushioning Charm and bounce to an untidy, but ultimately safe, landing.

You’ve saved my life without even being here, George. I need to thank you, and I need to talk to your twin, too. If Alicia was telling the truth, then I need to know that, and so do you.

As I scramble to my feet, Voldemort is announcing a ceasefire. His troops are retreating, now is my chance. I run into the castle and into the Great Hall and there are the Weasleys, all together. They are all there, all except Fred. I wonder where he is. They are clustered around … clustered around…

Oh, Merlin, it’s Fred!

Poor George; now we’ll never know, I’ll never know. Tears burn my eyes, tears for Fred, tears for George, and tears for an opportunity lost.

I cannot say what needs to be said, not now. I turn and leave the Hall; I leave the Weasleys to their grief.


	19. Parents

**Parents**

‘Wake up, Don!’ Carmine Brown shouted as she dashed into their bedroom.

Turning on the lamps, she roughly pulled the bedclothes from her husband’s sleeping form, grabbed his shoulder and shook him violently.

Don Brown was a heavy sleeper, but the urgency in his wife’s voice brought him almost instantly into fear-befuddled wakefulness. He sat up, groaned and looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. His alarm had been set for the tide, for five o’clock in the morning. He needed to be aware and awake when he and his crew put to sea. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked worriedly at his wife; her panic-stricken voice had doubled his heart rate. Only something really serious would make her wake him only hours before he was due to sail.

Only one thing, he realised, could be that serious.

‘Is it Lavender?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

‘You-Know-Who is attacking the school. Scarlet sent an urgent owl to let me know. Potterwatch has been broadcasting for hours, apparently. But it was our cousin, Dominic, who warned _her_ , he was … called … to the school.’

‘Dominic,’ Don was astonished, ‘Dominic Greengrass? _Death Eater_ Dominic?’ he mouthed the words “Death Eater,” unable to bring himself to say those perilous words aloud. 

In these dark and dangerous times, you never knew who was listening. The fact that his wife’s cousin had joined the Death Eater’s was a source of both worry and hope for Don. This latest piece of information was not much comfort. Dominic Greengrass had warned Carmine’s sister, Scarlet, about the attack but he had not informed them.

‘Yes! Dominic told Scarlet, and Scarlet told me! For Merlin’s sake, Don, wake up!’ his wife was almost screaming at him in her anxiety. ‘The teachers are organising an evacuation of the school. The kids are being sent to Hogsmeade.’

‘All of them?’ Don asked hopefully, hastily clambering from his warm bed as his wife threw his robes at him.

‘Scarlet said that all students who are of age are being allowed to stay, if they want too,’ Carmine told him. She failed to hide the anxiety in her voice and Don’s heart sank. Lavender would stay. His little girl would stay and fight with those crazy friends of hers.

Don clenched his fists in anger. This was all Harry Potter’s fault, him and that ridiculous club of his. Potter, and that Weasley boy Lavender had been so crazy about last year. They had been a bad influence on his daughter. They had filled Lavender’s head with nonsense about right and wrong, about justice and bravery.

Don Brown had bitter memories of the last time You-Know-Who had been on the rampage, the time which Lavender and her friends had begun calling “the first war.” Twenty years ago, Don’s fishing business had been bled almost dry by constant demands for money for “protection from Dark Forces.” He had paid because he’d had no choice, because “the Dark Forces” were the ones who were offering him protection, and you simply did not say no to them. After a couple of years of living in fear, when he had a baby girl to support and his business had been pushed to the brink of bankruptcy, You-Know-Who had tried to kill the baby Potter and he had vanished.

Gone for good, or so Fudge had claimed. The Ministry had promised a better future, and Don had worked hard to rebuild. He had succeeded, but the Ministry had failed.

Fudge had been wrong, or lying, and now _he_ was back. The Ministry were saying nothing about You-Know-Who. They claimed that all of the current problems were all being caused by the Muggle-borns, and that the Muggle-born Registration Commission would fix things, but no one really believed that. Everyone recognised the signs. The dark days were back.

There was only one thing for a businessman to do. Don had learned that lesson the last time. So for the past year, he had kept his head down. He had done nothing to bring any attention to himself, and had simply hoped that no one would notice him. The alternative was to lose everything. He could so easily lose his house, his business, his life, and possibly Lavender’s life, too.

If _they_ thought you were a threat, you would certainly lose everything. His wife, Carmine, might possibly be safe, so long as she did not try anything stupid. Carmine was a Greengrass and a pureblood and her self-important, snooty and superior sister, Scarlet had many faults, and Don knew that she despised him. But blood was thicker than water, and he knew that Scarlet would protect Carmine if she could. But could she protect Lavender? Don was a half-blood, and therefore so was his daughter.

Lavender was young and idealistic, she didn’t realise that by speaking out she was being noticed, she was putting them all in danger.

‘Potter…’ Don began as he hurriedly got dressed.

‘He’s at Hogwarts, apparently,’ Carmine told him.

‘He’s there! So it’s his fault! He brought … brought … You-Know-Who to the school!’ shouted Don angrily.

‘She might have left, with the younger kids,’ said Carmine hopefully.

Don knew that his wife did not really believe her own words. They both knew their little girl much too well for that, but it was the only straw they had, and they clutched it desperately.

Don slipped on his shoes and they ran downstairs and out into the street. They lived in a Muggle town, Rye, but they did not consider walking to the secluded spot they usually used as an Apparition point. Carmine Brown grabbed her husband’s arm, looked worriedly into his face, and gave him a consoling hug.

‘Take me to Hogsmeade,’ she ordered. So he did.

The soft popping noise of their arrival was unheard over the horrendous howling in Hogsmeade. A caterwauling charm had been set off and it blared and screamed in the still night air. The streets of the village were filled with witches and wizards, many still in their night clothes. Lanterns hung from most of the doorways, casting long shadows and making already pale and worried faces appear an eerie, ghostly, white. Don and Carmine Brown looked round wildly, not knowing where to go or what to do. An elderly shopkeeper approached them.

‘Looking for your kids?’ he shouted over the wailing of the charm.

‘Yes!’ Don yelled.

‘They’re all at the Hog’s Head, we’ve tried to keep them together, and some of us have been trying to sort them out, get their names and stuff.’

‘Thanks.’ Don didn’t wait to hear more, he didn’t even bother to ask why they had chosen that dingy old dive as the place to hold the children. Grabbing his wife’s hand he dashed off towards the run-down pub. They were halfway down the lane when the caterwauling charm suddenly stopped. There was an audible sigh of relief from everyone in the streets.

Don and Carmine pushed open the door to the pub and looked around hopefully. They realised immediately that their daughter was not there. Refusing to allow his hopes to be entirely dashed, Don looked around the room again, slowly and carefully. There were still over fifty children in the grimy bar, but none appeared to be older than fourteen or fifteen. Many were crying and most were still in their night clothes. Several witches and wizards were trying to calm the youngsters. Don recognised Ambrosius Flume and his wife. The owners of Honeydukes were handing out chocolate to the confused and frightened children.

‘How can we get into the school?’ Don asked the room in general.

‘You can’t,’ a grizzled old wizard standing quietly in the corner announced. ‘Why do you want to?’

Don examined the man suspiciously, which side was he on? The man looked to be about sixty, had a short-cropped salt and pepper beard and was leaning heavily on a walking stick.

‘Our daughter is in there!’ Carmine shouted tearfully, before Don could caution her to silence.

‘So is Voldemort, and he’s closed the place. It’s completely surrounded by wards and no one can get in or out. He’s even closed the Floo connections. We’re trying to get in, but so far we haven’t found a way past his seals. The passage the kids used to escape is upstairs, but now it won’t open, and I don’t know why. Our best hope seems to be the main gates, I’m heading up there now, d’you want to come along?’ the wizard asked.

‘Who are you?’ Don asked suspiciously.

‘Gawain Robards, _Auror_ ,’ the man said proudly emphasising the final word. ‘I’ve been waiting months to say that word in public again, follow me, if you’re coming.’

He led them out of the pub and limped up the lane to the main gates, where a horde of parents and shopkeepers were milling around. Anxious, excited, waiting.


	20. Son of the Air

**Son of the Air**

You trot through the forest as carefully and quietly as possibly. You must not be seen or heard; not if you are to find out what is happening.

The Forbidden Forest is your home. It is a wild, dangerous and living place. It is ever growing, ever changing and often violent. This is natural, and accepted by you and your fellow denizens of this enchanted place. What is happening now, however, is strange and unexpected. Never before has the forest seen a night like this. Shouts and screams in the night, explosions and flashing lights. Your herd has been restless since midnight.

You have been cautiously scouting for hours, trying to discover what is happening.

The two-legs came first. Men, they call themselves. Noisy and blundering as always, they entered the forest without respect for flora or fauna. They tramped and trampled. They attacked, hurt, and even killed. Anything that crossed their path was a target. They were numerous and powerful, so you and your fellow forest dwellers slipped into the shadows and let them go where they pleased.

The eight-legs came later. They are the dwellers from the deepest and darkest glades. You know how dangerous the eight-legs are and you know to avoid their part of the forest. They rarely leave the safety of their lair, and they did so unwillingly. They were driven towards the castle by the two-legs.

The narrow paths and shaded clearings you know so well are being altered. Trees are being uprooted, fires have been started, and creatures are dying. Every beast in the forest is wary and alert, all because of the two-legs.

These men are still in the forest, your forest. They continue to burn and kill. All two-legs are strange and alien creatures, but these masked ones are worse than most. They do not hunt, they simply destroy.

Hunting is essential, it is natural; it is the order of things. Lesser beasts are there to be killed and eaten. When you are hungry, you kill and eat. When you are in danger you stampede and fight. You do this to defend territory; you do it for the good of the herd. These interloping two-legs destroy and kill without reason. They do it merely because they can.

The two-legs are clamour, commotion and flashing, flickering lights, this makes their lair easy to find. You carefully trot forwards, making as little noise as possible. As you move cautiously towards the clearing you pass under the canopy of an enormous oak, and you realise that you are not alone. You see movement in the distance, so you wait in the shadows and watch. Another creature trots through the forest nearby. You have the eyes of an eagle, and despite the darkness of the forest at night, the other is easy to see. It is a man-horse.

You take one step forwards, revealing yourself to this fellow forest-dweller. The man-horse sees you and he stops. You examine him carefully. In his hand he carries the bent stick, the stick which is forced into a curve by a string of twisted sinew. He carries the sharp sticks in a bag on his back. You have seen the bent stick and sharp sticks before. You know that the man-horse uses the bent stick to throw the sharp sticks, to throw pain and death over a distance. The man-horse slips the bent stick over his arm, hanging it on his shoulder and freeing both of his hands. He opens his arms, his empty palms facing outwards, and he bows to you.

The man-horse has shown the respect required. You return the bow, bending your sharp-clawed forelegs. This is natural; it is respect between equals. It is the respect of one part-horse to another, the respect of one forest dweller to another. He turns away and heads towards the noise. You, too, move closer to the clamour, but you remain some distance from the man-horse.

You approach the clearing and the cackling, crowing, crowd. You cautiously peer at the grim and ghoulish gang in the glade.

You see your friend, your provider, Furry-face; he wears his coat of moles. Furry-face is a two-legs; he is a man, but also he is a not-man. He is easy to see, he is bigger than all other men. He is stronger and more powerful than men, too, but he is also less cruel. He shows true respect to the forest and its denizens. He is observant and he knows this forest and its ways better than any other two-legs. Furry-face should notice you watching him. But he sees nothing. His eyes are wrong, his movements are wrong. He is Furry-face and yet he is not Furry-face. His body does not obey him; it has been enthralled by someone else.

You remain still and silent and simply observe. Your eagle eyes are sharp and soon you identify the puppet-master. White of face and red of eye, he is man, but also not-man.

You observe White-face curiously. There is little left of the man on the outside, and even less on the inside. White-face is surrounded by masks and cloaks. They cheer and shout as white-face throws a boy into the air.

Not _a_ boy, _the_ boy! You recognise the boy. This is the boy who showed you respect. This is the boy who bowed low to you, as is required. This is the boy who was once allowed the privilege of sitting astride your back. The boy helped you to escape from the Sharp-metal-man and afterwards he introduced you to another.

Because of the boy you met the Haunted-man. Together you and the Haunted-man travelled the world. The Haunted-man is gone from this world, and you are back in the forest, but the boy still lives. He lies limp and lifeless in a strange pretence of death. As he flies through the air, however, your eagle eyes can see the strong pulse on his neck. The two-legs are ignorant, incapable of seeing through even this simple ruse. They look, but they do not see.

The cheering, jeering, crowd wear masks, but masks are no disguise to someone with the eyes of an eagle, to someone who can see a beating pulse from a hundred yards. You can see through the eye-holes in the masks. You look from one masked face to another, looking at the eyes inside the mask. As you do so, you see your enemy, the Sharp-metal-man. This is the one who kills noble creatures for the perverse pleasure of seeing them suffer. He is tall and thick-set and through the eye-holes in his mask you can see those cruel blue eyes and bushy dark brows. This is the one who would have killed you.

You could have killed him years ago, but Furry-face begged you not to kill. Now Furry-face is bound into silence by White-face. Sharp-metal-man and the other masks laugh at Furry-face and they taunt him just as, years ago, the Pointy-faced-boy taunted you.

You wonder why Furry-face allows this. Years ago, when the Pointy-faced-boy laughed at you, when he showed arrogance and contempt, when the cruel and ignorant two-legs refused to show respect, you taught him a lesson. You clawed him. It was a glancing blow, no more. You could have killed him at a stroke, but you did not. You showed the Pointy-faced-boy mercy. That was a mistake, for it was his actions which brought you so close to death.

Afterwards, despite the restraint you had shown to the Pointy-faced-boy, Furry-face told you that you had done wrong. He told you that hurting one of the foals of the two-legs was a bad thing. But you cannot fathom why. Those who do not give respect do not deserve respect. Furry-face told you that you were wrong to hurt the pale blond boy … but now Furry-face can tell you nothing.

Furry-face often talks to you, he talks to the herd. He has done so many times over the years. Do not hurt the foals, Furry-face told you years ago. He tells you this every time he speaks, so you do not. Because Furry-face is right, no one should hurt the foals; no one should ever hurt the foals. Provided, of course, that the foals show respect.

You continue to watch as, with limbs stiff from the effort of resisting, Furry-face lifts the boy. As he gently cradles the boy, water flows from his eyes. You remain still and silent, watching and waiting. The boy is a boy no more, you realise; he is grown. He is a stallion, he is a tercel trained to the hunt, a man.

As white-face and his masks move forward Furry-face shouts into the forest. He has seen the man-horse and he calls him coward. The masks all jeer and laugh. You look behind the mask of Sharp-metal-man and you see the joy in his eyes. You see the desire to kill, and you know that the foals are in danger: your foals, the foals of the man-horses, and the foals of the two-legs.

You gallop back through the forest. You return to the clearing where the herd waits impatiently. You cry the cry of an eagle, and the herd take up the cry. You gallop around the clearing and begin the stampede. When you finally stretch your wings and take flight, the herd follows.

Together, your eagle wings beat and the herd soars skywards, surging out from your forest. As you climb, the herd becomes a flock. The first rays of the sun turn the eastern horizon as red as blood as your wings push the air beneath you. Higher and higher you climb.

Great height gives you great advantage. The flock circles and watches. Your eyes are keen. You have the head of an eagle, the wings of an eagle, the claws of an eagle and the body of a horse. Hippogriff, men call you. You watch as white-face and his masks approach the castle. You see the defenders pour out from the school. You also see things which white-face and his masks, trapped on the ground, cannot see.

The main gates to the school grounds have opened and a herd of two-legs stampedes towards white-face and his gang. Meanwhile, just out of sight of white-face, the forest edge swarms with the man-horses. They are all bending their sticks, preparing to throw pain. Then it begins.

You see a flash of sharp-metal and a snake dies, this is the signal. The bent sticks of the man-horses bend further and you watch as the sharp sticks rain down on the masks. The man-horses charge forwards, preparing to loose more sharp sticks on White-face and his masks. The herd of two-legs crests the hill, shouting loudly. You fold your wings and lead the flock into a dive.

With wingtips pointing steeply skywards, you plummet rapidly towards the ground. As you plunge earthwards, you seek out those who are tall and thickset and you search for the eyes inside the mask. Finally, as your fall reaches maximum velocity, your eagle-eyes see the blue eyes and thick brows of the Sharp-metal-man. You flex your wings, your muscles strain against unyielding air in your effort to change direction, to pull you out of your dive. You swoop, claws open.

In the dive, timing is everything. You are travelling at over one hundred miles an hour when you begin to fight the air, to pull out of the dive. If you mistime it, even by a fraction of a second, you will miss your prey and you will be several hundred yards away from him before he even realises what has happened.

Your eyes remain fixed on the Sharp-metal-man. You will not get a second chance. He is running from the sharp sticks of the man-horses and away from the hostile crowds. He is looking around, not up. He is a fool.

You lift your forelegs in anticipation. Your wings strain and flex as you move from near vertical to horizontal in a perfect parabola.

You drop your forelegs and your claws enclose his shoulders. You catch your prey and climb almost as quickly as you dived. You are nearly half a mile in the air before he even realises what has happened. You shake him as you climb.

Shake, shake … shake, shake. By shaking, he cannot use his stick to hurt you. He is rigid with fear and when you shake again he drops his stick. He screams and flails in fear as he watches it tumble away. Now you are certain that he is yours.

‘Buckbeak!’ he screams as you fly higher and higher into the rapidly approaching clouds.

* * *

Healer Aoife Flaherty looked up from the corpse she was examining. She made a note of it’s location on a map and carefully photographed the man before removing his bloody mask.

‘Any idea who this one was, Kingsley?’ she asked.

‘Walden Macnair, suspected Death Eater. He managed to weasel his way out of imprisonment after Voldemort’s first fall. How did he die?’

‘He fell, by the look of his injuries.’

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked up into the clear blue sky. The corpse was lying in the middle of the castle grounds, at least quarter a mile from the nearest building or tree. ‘From where, exactly?’ he asked.

‘From a very long way up, judging from the amount of damage he’s suffered,’ Aoife replied. ‘I hope for his sake that he was dead before he was dropped.’


	21. Snakeslayer

**Snakeslayer**

I watched Oliver shoulder his burden and walk away. As he left, a tidal wave of grief engulfed me, and I almost drowned.

Fatigue and anguish combined forces with my overwhelming sorrow and tried to defeat me. I forced myself to fight back, to ignore my feelings. I needed to remain focussed. I had been doing it all year; standing up to the bullies and trying to give the others hope. It was becoming second nature to me. With Harry missing, someone had to do it. I wondered if Harry had the same doubts and worries I did.

It was not easy. There were already so many dead, and Oliver was carrying Colin; another one of ours, another fallen member of Dumbledore’s Army. Fred Weasley was gone too, and no one was sure if Lavender would make it.

I was sweating and shaking, but I needed to be strong for the others, so I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and went back out into the Hogwarts grounds. Ginny was out there somewhere, I’d seen Terry and Luna too. They were looking for survivors; I had volunteered to collect the dead.

It did not take me long to find another body. There seemed to be innumerable corpses. I looked down at a stranger, a middle aged man in dress robes. He should be going to a ball, or a party, yet here he was, dead in the grounds of Hogwarts Castle. I had no idea who he was, or even whose side he had been fighting on. A piece of card was sticking from the pocket of his robes, so I pulled it out. It was an invitation to the Puddlemere Alhambra and it was dated the previous evening. If the invitation was his, then I was looking at the corpse of Michael Mackinnon, Treasurer of the Puddlemere United Supports Club. I wondered if he had a family, and why he was here.

It was almost four in the morning and Colin’s death had affected me more than I cared to admit. I was beginning to wonder if any of us would see the dawn. I was tired, and dark thoughts were assailing me. What would happen if Voldemort won? How many more people would die if that happened? Did Harry really know what he was doing?

“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” that’s what Gran would tell me. I hope that she is right. I stared at the cadaver, trying to decide whether I could lift him unaided.

I was deep in thought when Harry called my name. He startled me. His voice was close by, but I’d been keeping one eye on my surroundings, and I knew that there was no one near me. When I jumped up and turned towards the sound, he was pulling off his invisibility cloak.

_‘Blimey Harry, you nearly gave me heart failure!’_ I said. I looked around, but there was no sign of Ron or Hermione and that instantly made me suspicious.

_‘Where are you going, alone?’_ I asked.

He told me that he had a plan and assured me that he knew what he was doing. He was speaking with a desperate urgency. It was obviously very important for him to tell me something, so I listened carefully as he quickly explained exactly what he wanted me to do.

_‘Kill the snake?’_ I asked as he finished.

He confirmed his instructions again. He told me that Ron and Hermione already knew what needed to be done. As he spoke he looked tense, more nervous than ever.

I was the back up, I realised, just in case the unthinkable happened. He’d chosen me, Neville Longbottom. He had entrusted this task to me. I should have been honoured, but I was simply too tired to do more than acknowledge and accept this additional duty.

Subconsciously, I knew where he was going. Somewhere deep inside I knew that, despite his assurances, he was going to face Voldemort. I recognised his lie, but I did not want to admit that awful truth. Besides, what could I have done? Stopped him? How?

Despite what the Slytherins always used to say, I had discovered that I was not useless. I could fight. I did fight, and I could even be a leader when necessary. The year before the Battle proved that. But there was no way I could have stopped Harry. When he decided to do something, he did it. The rest of us were left with a simple choice; follow him, or get out of his way. I learned that lesson in my first year. Sometimes, Harry could be almost as frightening as Gran. I did the only thing I could.

I reassured him. I promised that we would keep on fighting. He struggled to reply.

_‘Yeah, I –’_ he began, but he didn’t finish. He lapsed into silence, pulled on his cloak and was gone. He was close to tears, closer to breaking than I’d ever seen him. But he wasn’t crying for himself; he was crying for us, and for the dead. He cared too much, and the victims of this battle were an almost unbearable burden on him. I tried to take comfort from the fact that he was at least as weighed down by the horrors of this battle as I was. The dead were a burden on us all. But we had to keep fighting, we had no choice. Fight and die, or surrender and die. We had made too many enemies to survive if we failed.

Should I follow Harry? Could I follow him? I looked down at Michael Mackinnon, the wizard in dress robes, and wondered what to do.

The answer to my questioning thoughts came in Harry’s words, “Kill the snake”. Harry had given me a job, and he’d said that it was important. I couldn’t stop him, and I couldn’t follow him, but I would do my best to fulfil the mission he had given me.

Why? Why was Voldemort’s snake important? I did not know, and I did not need to know. All I needed to know was that Harry wanted it dead, and he’d entrusted the job to me.

How? I did not think that I could use the Killing Curse. I was not certain that it would work; you needed to mean it, according to Professor Moody. It wasn’t really Professor Moody who’d told us that, it was a Death Eater, and he would know. Perhaps a knife, or a cleaver, I would ask the house-elves to find one for me.

My musings were interrupted by a hesitant shout.

‘Hello?’

It was Ginny! I left poor Michael Mackinnon and ran towards the sound of her voice. When I arrived, panting, at her side she smiled gratefully and my heart missed a beat, the way it does when Ginny smiles at me. She was kneeling next to a badly bleeding body. She had done her best, but the girl was in a bad way.

‘Once again, Nev rushes to the rescue. I don’t know what I’d do without you, mate,’ she said.

Ginny was the first to start calling me Nev. Now, a lot of people do. I examined the girl Ginny was with, and tried to remember her name. She was in my year, and in Ravenclaw, but I didn’t really know any of the Ravenclaw girls except Padma, and Luna, of course, but everyone knows Luna.

‘We need to get her to Madam Pomfrey, and quickly,’ Ginny told me, and she was right.

‘Mandy Brocklehurst,’ I said dredging her name from somewhere. ‘Can you Transfigure something into a stretcher? I’ll help you carry her inside.’

Ginny frowned, but did as I asked. I’ve been giving orders for a year, but Ginny was never very good at following them. She would always question orders, unless they were from Harry.

‘I only got an Acceptable in my Transfiguration OWL, Ginny, you’re a NEWT level student,’ I reminded her.

We struggled inside with our unconscious burden and took her, as quickly as we could, through the school and up to the hospital wing. We passed several of the wounded; they were lying in hastily conjured beds in the corridor. A burly young woman in dress robes was watching our approach. She had one leg missing, recently, by the look of her bloodstained robes and she was leaning on a crutch. She took one look at Mandy and ordered, ‘Take her in.’

We walked past four lightly injured students waiting patiently outside the door. Wayne Hopkins greeted us as we entered. He cleaned his bloodstained hands with his wand and looked down at Mandy.

‘That bed,’ he pointed to one of only two vacant beds. We carried her over and lowered her down as gently as we could.

‘Poppy, we’ve another victim of Sectumsempra,’ Wayne called. The school nurse hurried over and we stepped back.

‘Lavender,’ whispered Ginny in horror.

I looked at the next bed, and there she was. Lavender Brown was lying on bloodstained sheets, blood still seeping through the bandages swathing her abdomen. Colin was dead, Fred was dead, and here was Lavender, pale and bleeding. I‘d been told that Lavender was in a bad shape, but I had not seen the full extent of her injuries.

How many more?

I looked at Ginny worriedly; she was obviously thinking the same thing.

‘Have you … have you seen Harry?’ asked Ginny.

I nodded. ‘He was heading out into the grounds just before you shouted. He told me that he had something to do.’

‘Alone?’ she whispered. Her face was suddenly pale and frightened. I nodded again, and she slapped me! Hard!

‘You bloody idiot! You let him go?’ she screamed. I have never seen her so angry. For a second, I thought that she was going to hit me again, but a noise from behind me distracted her. It was a snort of laughter hastily turned into a cough. I turned in time to see Draco Malfoy’s expression somersault from snide amusement to absolute terror. I have no idea why he was in the Hospital Wing. Hiding, I suppose.

‘Don’t hit me, I’m on your side,’ begged Draco. ‘I haven’t got a wand.’

He backed hurriedly against the wall as Ginny approached him. She raised her hand and he cowered in fear from her. While he gazed fearfully at her raised hand she kneed him in the groin. Her knee connected with enough force to lift his feet from the ground. My scrotum tightened and my eyes watered simply from seeing the strength of the strike. Draco collapsed onto the ground, whimpering and groaning.

‘Well, who’d have thought it, you do have balls after all!’ Ginny snapped. ‘Come on, Nev, let’s try to find more survivors.’

She turned and strode determinedly from the ward but I caught the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, tears for Harry.

I followed silently. There was no point in talking. No excuse would be good enough. I had let Harry leave. My only hope was that he would come back to her, if he didn’t she would never forgive me.

We went back into the grounds and were immediately hailed by Luna and Terry. They were looking for help.

‘We’ve found someone trapped under the rubble,’ Luna said. Terry silently nodded his agreement. I swear I’ve only heard him speak a dozen words this year.

They led us back into the grounds towards a crumbled corner of the castle, past two dead giants and the remains of two or three trolls. I looked carefully and decided that it had been three. While there were only two torsos, there were five arms.

As Luna led us through the battlefield another figure came cautiously out of the darkness towards us, her wand raised. Her golden blonde hair was no longer in pigtails, it was loose, and glowing in the wand light, and she was absolutely gorgeous. She smiled at me, and my heart began beating faster. I had not seen her since she left school when her mother was killed. That was at the beginning of our sixth year. She hadn’t come back, not even this year. I’d heard from Ernie and Susan that she was working for Tom in the Leaky Cauldron.

‘Hello, Hannah,’ I said. Then Justin stepped out of the darkness alongside her and took her hand proprietarily. Hannah and I simply looked at each other in silence.

‘This way!’ Luna ordered.

We followed her to a huge slab of masonry on which someone had roughly carved PP UNDER.

There can’t be anyone alive under there,’ I said.

‘There is,’ Luna sounded certain, ‘I used the _Homenum Revelio_ spell; it only locates living people.’

Working together, we carefully levitated the slabs of broken stonework to one side and placed them on the ground. Underneath, barely alive, we found a bizarrely dressed Muggle. Justin swore.

‘She’s an Auror, Polly Protheroe. Colin and I met her on the way here. That reminds me, has anyone seen little Col, recently?’ Justin asked.

‘He’s dead, Justin,’ I told him flatly. My voice was harsher than I intended, more callous than I’d intended.

“Hard times make hard people,” Gran once told me. To my amazement, Justin began to cry. Hannah looked reproachfully at me and hugged him. I was uncertain what to do, what to say, but before I could decide, Luna spoke.

‘It is very sad about Colin,’ she said. ‘But this lady is still alive and we should try to make sure that she stays that way.

‘Nice boots,’ she added inconsequentially as we carefully lifted the woman from the ground and took her back inside.

We were walking back down from the hospital wing, having filled the last bed in the ward when Ginny pulled me to a halt.

‘I’m sorry about the slap, before, Nev. Harry was simply being Harry, wasn’t he?’

I nodded. She reached up and gently rubbed my cheek. She turned away, smiling sadly and side by side we walked back down into the entrance hall. Then Voldemort spoke again.

_‘Harry Potter is dead…’_

I saw Ginny slump for a second, then saw the fire in her eyes.

She would follow Harry anywhere, I realised in horror.

_“Kill the snake, kill the snake.”_ Harry’s voice echoed around my head, but he was whispering, too.

_“Keep Ginny safe.”_ That was the other message. He had not given that order, but I knew that even if Harry really was dead, even if Lord Liar was telling the truth for once, then Harry had died for Ginny, for all of us. He wanted us alive, he wanted Ginny to live.

I followed the crowds outside and saw Harry’s limp and lifeless body in Hagrid’s arms. I could hear Ron, Hermione and Ginny crying out his name. I could see their horror. Even Professor McGonagall was overwrought, I forced myself to ignore the cries and I tried to remain calm. Voldemort was taunting us, I reminded myself, he was using Harry’s death to weaken and confuse us.

_“Kill the snake, kill the snake.”_ Harry’s voice was still in my head, reminding me. In their grief, Ron and Hermione seemed to have forgotten.

And then Voldemort was talking again, lying again.

_‘He was killed trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,’_ said Voldemort duplicitously.

I had looked Harry in the face when he gave me my mission, and the instant Voldemort said those words I knew that he was lying. Harry’s eyes had not been the eyes of a frightened coward on the run; they were the eyes of a man who was going to do what had to be done. It seemed that he had failed.

Now it was my turn.

_“Kill the snake,”_ Harry reminded me again. Ron shouted something, but I wasn’t listening. I had intended to find a cleaver, a weapon, but I’d been so busy. How could I kill the snake?

I drew my wand and charged.

It was a stupid move. He disarmed me in an instant, taunted me. He had no idea who I was until Bellatrix told him.

For the first time I was face to face with the man whose followers had tortured my parents, and what did he do? He asked me if I was a Pureblood!

He stood there, the hateful madwoman, Bellatrix, alongside him, and asked me to join him, to become a Death Eater. It was obvious that he did not understand me. I wondered if he understood anyone. It seemed that he knew nothing about people. He did not look human and he seemed to have no humanity within him.

_‘I’ll join you when hell freezes over,’_ I told him. Ignoring his threats and ramblings I looked around for my wand. I would never reach it, it was too far away. I had failed Harry, I had failed Ginny and I had failed my parents.

Voldemort put me into a Full Body-Bind and forced the Sorting Hat onto my head. He was talking again, rambling again, lying again. But no one was listening to his lies. There were shouts and screams and curses from the crowds. I was not paying any attention to _his_ words; I was busily listening to the voice in my head and also to the voice on my head. Then Voldemort set fire to the hat.

_“Kill the snake,”_ Harry reminded me again as the Hat spoke, too.

‘Ah, Neville Longbottom, Gryffindor, I knew that I’d made the correct decision. You were not so sure, were you? You are brave, honest and loyal to your friends to the very end, the essence of a true Gryffindor. You will need this, I think,’ the Hat told me. I winced in pain as something hard and heavy hit me on the top of my skull.

I could move. For some reason Voldemort’s Full Body-Bind was not holding me. Shaking off the spell I pulled off the hat and withdrew the sword of Godric Gryffindor from it.

One swing, one slice and the snake’s severed head was flying. I had carried out my mission. I still had the sword, and there was Voldemort. The invincible Dark Lord stood, angry and astonished, right in front of me. I saw my death in his eyes. He would almost certainly raise his wand before I could close and strike him, but I had nothing to lose. I began to move forwards.

His spell never came, my death never came. Instead, there was a shield spell between us. I rolled across the ground and grabbed my wand in my left hand. Someone screamed, because Harry’s body had vanished, and suddenly, there was pandemonium.

The melee moved rapidly. Centaur’s arrows fell on the Death Eaters and a flock of Hippogriffs swooped down, plucking others from the ground. The tide had turned unexpectedly and instantly, it was almost as if the death of the snake were a signal. Reinforcements had arrived for our side. They were running over the hill towards us and suddenly, miraculously, we outnumbered Voldemort’s followers.

I found myself back inside the castle, alongside Ron. He looked more grim and fierce than I’d ever seen him; he was a soot-blackened and tear-stained berserker. In front of us stood Fenrir Greyback; Lavender’s attacker. It was not a full moon night, but even in his human form he appeared bestial. He leapt at me, his hands outstretched and curled like claws and I forgot my wand. Instead of a spell, Gryffindor’s sword swung and lopped off his right hand. He stopped, aghast, and Ron and I both shouted ‘Stupefy!’ He was slammed back against the wall, down and out and bleeding.

Then Ron’s mum was pushing Ginny, Hermione and Luna aside and fighting Bellatrix, killing her with nothing more than a silent stunning spell. Stun the heart and stop the body, I discovered later. And finally, like a miracle, there was Harry, and then it was all over.

‘You are so brave,’ Romilda told me later. She wasn’t the only one. I am surrounded by dozens of people, most of whom I don’t really know. They all want to be my friend. I have no idea how Harry copes with this.

They are calling me Snakeslayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note:** This story contains (in italics) dialogue taken directly from Deathly Hallows (from chapter 34 The Forest Again, and chapter 36 The Flaw in the Plan)


	22. Broken Flint

**Broken Flint**

‘It’s true! _He’s_ dead!’ said Miles Bletchley as he slid down into the hollow where his companions were hiding.

There was no need for Bletchley to explain who _“he”_ was. The unthinkable had happened; Potter had killed the Dark Lord.

‘So are Bellatrix, Rodolphus and at least half a dozen others,’ Bletchley continued. ‘The surviving giants and trolls are trying to sneak off home, but the forest is crawling with centaurs. The filthy half-breed creatures aren’t happy with our side and they are attacking everyone they can find. The Hippogriffs are circling over the grounds and they are assaulting anyone on a broom. And I’ve just seen a boat dragged underwater by the Merfolk. Getting out of here won’t be easy.’

Bletchley paused for breath. Millicent Bullstrode kept him silent with nothing more than a glance, and together they watched and waited for the information to percolate into the brain of their most dim-witted companion. When they were satisfied that he’d grasped the facts, Bletchley continued.

‘I’ve just been talking to Rowle and some woman I don’t know. He was calling her Green. They’re trying to get out into the mountains to Apparate away. Rowle told me that we need to scarper, too.’

‘That’s obvious,’ said Millicent sarcastically. ‘But I’m surprised that Rowle managed to think of that all by himself.’

‘I think Green is the one with the brains,’ Bletchley said. ‘They’ve got somewhere to hide, I’m sure of it, but the bastards wouldn’t tell me where they were going. They also told me that old man Nott has turned himself in to the Aurors. He’s claiming that he didn’t kill anyone.’

‘Nott,’ Millicent Bulstrode spat the name contemptuously. ‘Little Theodore wasn’t here to fight, neither was Zabini, or Pansy and her pals. The Parkinsons are all cowards; they always just watch and wait. Pansy is just the same as her dad. All this “of course I support the Dark Lord” crap she spouted was just to impress that skinny runt, Malfoy. I thought that at least Daphne would’ve been here with her dad, but no.’

‘Dominic Greengrass is one of the dead,’ Bletchley told her. Millicent shrugged unconcernedly.

‘D’you know what’s happened to the Malfoys?’ Milicent asked. ‘They change sides quicker than I can spit.’

‘Rowle reckons that they’re inside the school, sitting with the victors,’ Bletchley said.

‘Me’n Crabbe had Potter an’ ’is Mudblood bitch trapped, but Draco stopped us killin’ ‘em,’ Goyle grunted.

‘Traitors,’ Millicent snorted and, true to her word, spat phlegm onto the grass. She turned to her classmate.

‘Now there’s just me’n you left from our year, Greg. The rest are traitors, or dead,’ she told him.

‘Wha’ we gonna do?’ Gregory Goyle mumbled. He was ripping up a cloak and trying, unsuccessfully, to bind his wounds with the strips of cloth.

‘Why don’t you help him with that,’ Bletchley suggested to Millicent.

‘Why don’t you help him, Miles! You’re not in charge. _He_ is, and we’re _not_ leaving him,’ said Millicent forcefully. She pointed to the fourth figure, the tall, burly black-haired young man who lay unconscious next to Goyle. Millicent looked worriedly down at her boyfriend’s broken body.

_Parkinson fancied pretty boy, Zabini, but she made do with rich boy Malfoy, until he chucked her_ , Millicent thought to herself, _but they were both useless, just like Parkinson herself_. She, on the other hand, had found herself a real man, a fighter, a scrapper. He was tough; he was hard. He was hard as Flint.

Last summer, she and Marcus had used their wands to carve each other’s initials into their shoulders. It had hurt, a lot! And that meant something! It meant more than rings and kisses, it meant that he was hers and she was his. But now he was broken.

She had found him trapped underneath the body of a dead giant. At first, she’d thought that he was dead. Trembling with fear and anger, she had pulled him out and examined him carefully. He was badly injured, but still alive. He was alive because he was strong!

Millicent had never been interested in healing magic, so she was unable to help him. She’d looked for their Healer, Wylde, but he had vanished. No one had seen him since Potter’s supposed death. Unable to find anyone to help, she had carried Marcus into the shaded, root shrouded hollow where they now hid. She had killed an overly inquisitive centaur in the process.

Now it was her job to keep her man safe until he recovered.

Bletchley and Goyle looked at the unconscious form of Marcus Flint. Both of his legs and one of his arms was broken. Blood was foaming and dribbling from his mouth too. Miles Bletchley looked at her cautiously.

‘We are _not_ leaving Marcus,’ Millicent said, glaring at the tall young man.

‘If we can get him to somewhere outside the grounds, we can take him by Side-along Apparition.’ Bletchley suggested.

‘Out? How?’ Goyle grunted.

‘No idea. We’ll certainly never get through the forest dragging him with us.’ Bletchley looked meaningfully at Goyle. Millicent spotted the look and moved to interpose herself between Flint and the other two young men.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said, grasping her wand tightly. ‘Marcus comes with us.’

At this second mention of his name, Marcus Flint groaned and his eyes flickered open. He let out a long stream of foul language, stopping only when he ran out of breath. Millicent stepped back and knelt by his side, taking care to keep a close eye on Bletchley and Goyle.

‘The Dark Lord’s dead, darlin’,’ Millicent told him. ‘We need to find a way to escape before we’re captured.’

Flint looked at Bletchley and Goyle, his eyes demanding confirmation from them.

‘We’ve lost,’ Bletchley said.

‘I can ge’ us out o’ here,’ Flint gasped, ‘Saw Potter, the Mudblood and the Blood-traitor a’ the Whompin’ Willer. There’s a passage in it, an’ I saw ‘em open it. Then a friggin’ giant fell on me ‘fore I could go after ‘em.’

Bletchley’s eyes lit up.

‘The tree’s only a couple of hundred yards away. But how can we get close enough to find the secret passage?’ he asked eagerly. ‘How do we open it, Marcus?’

Millicent caught Marcus’ eyes and shook her head.

‘I know how to do it,’ Flint groaned. ‘Jus’ ge’ me to the tree.’

The sun had cleared the horizon and was casting long shadows across the school grounds as the four peered cautiously out into the surrounding forest. Several witches and wizards were slowly scouting the grounds. Aurors and Law Officers!

Moving cautiously, and under the protection of a Disillusionment Charm, Bletchley and Millicent carried Flint towards the tree, Gregory Goyle limping along behind them. They stopped just outside the reach of the flailing branches of the Willow, where, grunting with the effort Flint used his wand to lift a twig and pressed the knot. Astonished by the tree’s sudden stillness, the four rapidly crept inside the roots and into passage.

Gregory Goyle was pushed into the lead while Millicent brought up the rear. Marcus had lapsed back into unconsciousness. The effort of casting a single, simple spell had been too much.

‘Where does this go?’ Bletchley asked as he struggled to drag Flint through the low and narrow tunnel.

‘Dunno,’ Millicent told him. ‘Out of here, I hope. If it does, and we get away, you owe Marcus. You owe both of us, Bletchley! Marcus found this place and he got us out.’ She glared at Bletchley until she was certain that he understood the debt. Miles, she knew, was almost as slippery and untrustworthy as Draco Malfoy.

‘Shit,’ said Goyle. He stopped suddenly.

Everyone else fell silent and watched as Goyle cautiously crawled forwards into a dank and derelict room and stood up. The others peered into the room and Millicent Bulstrode hissed; the corpse of their Headmaster, Severus Snape, lay upon the floor. They entered the room in trepidation.

‘Potter must’ve killed him. They hated each other,’ Goyle whispered. Bletchley nodded, but Millicent looked at the body and noticed the torn flesh and gaping wounds.

‘Looks like a snake bite to me,’ she said quietly. _From a bloody big snake,_ she thought to herself, _and there was only one person at the battle with a snake that size._

Millicent was puzzled. What the hell had happened? Why would the Dark Lord kill one of his most loyal servants? Surely Snape couldn’t have betrayed them?

Everything had gone wrong! Voldemort was supposed to be all powerful, unbeatable, invulnerable, but even though he’d hit Potter with a Killing Curse he was dead. And somehow Potter was still alive. If that wasn’t impossible enough, it looked like the Dark Lord himself had killed the man he’d made Headmaster! Perhaps Voldemort had gone crazy. Her father had warned her that, when he had returned from the dead, Lord Voldemort had been single-minded almost to the point of insanity. He had been obsessed with killing Potter.

She would probably never know what had happened.

They stumbled upstairs and finally broke their way out of the building, the Shrieking Shack. They were finally outside the Hogwarts grounds and could Apparate to safety.

‘Where can we go?’ Millicent asked. ‘My dad’s been captured and we don’t know where those Death Eaters were going when they made a run for it.’

‘We’re on our own,’ said Bletchley. ‘The only thing that we can do is hide.’

Goyle grumbled his agreement.

‘We’ll hide until we get Marcus fixed up,’ said Millicent angrily. ‘Then we’ll teach these Muggle-lovers a lesson.’


	23. Ouroboros

**Ouroboros**

‘Are we safe?’ my son hissed.

He was pale and frightened, he was hurt too. My son, my only child, had been physically abused. He was beaten, battered, bruised and slightly singed, but he was alive and, by some miracle, he was not seriously wounded. He had not complained to me about his injuries, because his father was in an even worse state.

‘We are at least as safe here as we were at home,’ I told him.

My husband lurched forwards and for a moment, I thought that he was going to object. He looked into my eyes and remained silent. It was a testament to the unpalatable truth of my words that he said nothing but simply slumped back, defeated.

We have not been safe in our own home for months. Not since my husband, eager to curry favour, invited _Him_ into the manor. Had I only realised the misfortune that dreadful decision would bring upon us, I would have protested. Hindsight invariably leaves an unpalatable, bitter, taste.

‘We can survive this,’ I told my menfolk. ‘We _will_ survive this.’

‘They want to attack me,’ my son said. He glanced towards a large group of his fellow students. The mob was glaring balefully at us. ‘Why don’t they attack me, attack us? Why are they letting us stay here?’

‘Because I saved Potter’s life,’ I told him.

Both my son and my husband looked at me in horror, in disbelief.

‘You did what?’ Lucius croaked through his bruised and broken lips.

I hadn’t had the chance to tell him. In truth, I hadn’t wanted to tell him. If I had made the wrong choice, allied myself to the wrong side, he could honestly say that I’d acted alone, that he didn’t know. Now, of course, it no longer mattered. I had been proven correct.

‘Mother!’ Draco was horrified.

‘I lied to _Him_ , told him that Potter was dead, but he wasn’t. _And I was right to do so_ ,’ I told them forcefully.

I saw a flicker of understanding in my husband’s face. Draco, however, remained unhappy.

‘Don’t scowl, Draco. It’s unbecoming,’ I told him before addressing my husband. ‘Lucius, my dear Lucius, _He_ tortured you, insulted you, belittled you and stole your wand. _He_ was treating us – treating _the house of Malfoy_ – with contempt! We have been in fear for our lives for months, you know that. Loyalty didn’t matter to _Him_ , all that mattered was obedience and success. Failure meant death. _He_ first tried to kill Potter seventeen years ago and it almost destroyed him. When he returned, he was obsessed. Potter must die, and _He_ must kill him.’

Draco did not like my words and that was obvious. He may be a good Occlumens, but he cannot hide his feelings from his mother. I turned to address him.

‘Draco, in the past few years, how many times has the Dark Lord tried to kill Potter?’ I asked.

‘A few,’ Draco admitted grudgingly.

‘And yet Potter survived every attempt,’ I said. ‘As we waited in the forest with the Dark Lord, my doubts grew.’

‘But…’ Draco began.

‘You were not in the forest, Draco. You were in the school, and Rowle and some of the others were whispering that you had changed sides. _He_ was listening to them,’ I said.

‘I was trying to capture Potter!’ my son protested.

‘I’m sure that you were, Draco,’ I said soothingly.

I have no illusions. My son has an inflated idea of his capabilities and an easily punctured ego. It is not a good combination and, if we are to survive, he will have some hard lessons to learn. I may not have very long in which to teach him.

‘You don’t know what happened, Draco,’ I said. ‘I saw—we _all_ saw Potter walk into the camp and face _Him_. We saw the Dark Lord cast the Killing Curse at Potter for a second time. The first time Potter had been a defenceless baby, this time he was a man, and _he did not fight back_. When the Dark Lord’s spell hit Potter, they both collapsed! We thought that they might both be dead. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in that camp who hoped that they might _both_ be dead!’

My husband grunted his agreement, and my son’s face fell into bewilderment.

‘It wasn’t to be. _He_ stood up. He claimed to be all right, but he was shaken, that was obvious.’

‘The Dark Lord collapsed!’ said Draco, disbelievingly.

‘Yes,’ Lucius croaked.

His father’s one word confirmation was enough. Our son carefully pondered this information.

‘He sent _me_ to see whether Potter was dead, Draco,’ I said. ‘The Dark Lord had just used the Killing Curse on the boy he’d wanted dead for years. Yet _He_ was still afraid to approach the boy. He’d used the Killing Curse but, even so, he wasn’t certain that Potter was dead. I checked, and Potter was alive! Potter told me that you were alive too, and inside the school. I had an instant to decide. The Dark Lord had failed to kill Potter again! I was in fear for my life, for your father’s life and for your life. Had the Dark Lord succeeded, and killed Potter, we would still have been in fear of our lives, from _Him_. But Potter lived! I could hardly believe it. _He_ could not kill the boy, he had failed again! What would have happened to you, Draco, had the Dark Lord given you that task? If _He_ ordered you to kill Potter and _you_ had failed?

‘I would be dead,’ Draco admitted.

‘So why should _He_ be any different? Even the Dark Lord had failed. Potter lived. He had survived two Killing Curses. Did it matter if Potter won? We could hardly be worse off than we already are, Draco. If my plan works, we will be free, no one will be spending our money or living in our house, and no one will be trying to kill us. The Malfoy name will live on in you, my dear Draco, and we can rebuild. The Dark Lord was spending our fortune as though it were his own. Bella didn’t help. She would have handed _Him_ everything, even you, Draco.’

I watched Draco gaze around the room. His enemies were celebrating, and that rankled. Then I saw the full realisation of what had happened strike him. The people who he had lorded over for years had won. He finally realised how difficult his future would be. I needed to remind him of the alternative.

‘Think about my words, Draco. When _He_ recruited you, you were so proud, but I was so worried. I was worried enough to ask Severus to protect you, and he did. You could not kill Dumbledore, kill a man who stood before you, helpless and unarmed. Had Severus not carried out that task, you would already be dead by _his_ hand. When the Dark Lord moved into our home, we lived in constant fear for our lives. _He_ took your father’s wand from him. _He_ used our wealth however and whenever he pleased. _He_ invited crass criminals and filthy werewolves into our home and demanded that we treat them as honoured guests. _He_ came close to killing us for other people’s mistakes. Had _He_ won, would we be any safer than we are now?’ I demanded.

Rather grudgingly, both Lucius and Draco shook their heads.

‘ _He_ wasn’t even a Pureblood. Both Potter and Dumbledore said that. I checked, Lucius, and it seems that they were right.

‘Can you be certain?’ Lucius asked.

‘I spoke to Wormtail,’ I replied. ‘And I went to the cemetery, the place the Dark Lord summoned you too when he returned. Wormtail told me the spell, “bone of the father”, he’d said, but Wormtail was too stupid to see the significance. I checked the grave. The Dark Lord’s father was a Muggle, Tom Riddle, and his mother, it seems, was a half-witted squib of a Gaunt. We have countless generations of blood purity, yet we foolishly gave our support to the lying, treacherous half-blood son of a squib.’ I paused and let my words sink in.

Lucius put his head in his hands and began to sob.

‘Lucius, you are a Malfoy!’ I hissed sternly. With an effort, he pulled himself together. I watched as he carefully replaced the mask of urbane boredom and superiority he wears so well. He glanced at me, and inclined his head slightly, thanking me for bringing him to his senses. Lucius was with me. It was time for me to return to our son.

‘Draco, you missed most of what happened at the manor last year. You were safe in school,’ I began.

‘Hardly safe,’ argued Draco. ‘I was Head Boy, but Longbottom, the Weasley bitch, and their friends tried to hex me at every opportunity.’

‘And you tried to hex them. It goes both ways, Draco,’ I told him. ‘This is no time for petty schoolboy grudges. The world has changed. Look around this room, look where we sit, unmolested, and think carefully. I know that you don’t like it, but where would you rather be? Outside the walls of this castle they are hunting for escaped Death Eaters, though very few have escaped. We sit inside, _with the victors_. We are Malfoys, we survive on our cunning. Your father has been wandless for months, you lost your wand at Easter, and now you have lost _mine_ too. I’m not blaming you, Draco. It is possibly for the best. We are wandless, helpless and beaten. Some of the people in this hall will pity us.’

Draco curled a lip in distaste.

‘We can use their pity, Draco. If we are pitiable, they will be compassionate. Find a weakness and exploit it, remember?’ I said.

Draco nodded sullenly.

‘But, what can we do now, Mother?’ he asked.

‘We can do what we did the last time, we can protest our innocence and we can claim that the Dark Lord threatened us, that he forced us to do the things we did. This time it is even, to a certain extent, true. And this time we have the advantage of knowing that _He_ won’t be back. _He_ hasn’t simply vanished, _He_ really is dead. I saw him die and I have seen the body. Dead is dead, Draco. There is no coming back. We are on the losing side, but we don’t have to be. I saved Potter and you haven’t killed anyone.’

‘But, father…’ Draco began.

‘Lucius,’ I said. My husband looked into my eyes. ‘Who is responsible for our misfortune?’ I asked him.

‘I am! I invited the Dark Lord into our home,’ he said with authority. That was when I realised that he didn’t understand, not completely. I’d thought that he was with me. The old Lucius would have instantly seen my plan.

‘No, Lucius, no,’ I protested. ‘This is the Dark Lord’s fault. He tricked you. He lied to all of us. He made us so many promises. Over more than twenty years, he promised us wealth and power and instead has delivered misery and fear, not simply to his enemies, but also to his most loyal supporters. You must accept this, you must _believe_ this, and you must tell all. Hand over every last cursed item, open your accounts, though not the secret ones. Beg forgiveness and cooperate with the new regime. Hold nothing back. Throw yourself on their mercy, and they will be merciful. We will suffer, but we will survive. Do it for me. Do it for Draco.’

‘Mother…’ Draco began to protest.

‘It is the only way, Draco,’ I said. ‘Listen to me and listen carefully. The way we act in the next few hours and days will be the key to our salvation. Curb your tongue. Do _not_ use the word Mudblood, not under _any_ circumstances. It does not matter how much anyone baits you, or tries to make you lose your temper, remain cowed and silent. Do _not_ try to be nice to Potter and his friends, either. I know you believe otherwise, but they are not stupid. They know that you hate them. Be beaten, but be polite and do not crawl, and for Merlin’s sake, try not to sound sarcastic or arrogant. They may want to prosecute you for one or two minor infringements. If they do, plead guilty, blame your father, or Severus, and throw yourself on the mercy of the court.’

‘It’s the only way forward, Draco,’ my husband said. ‘I will hand myself over to the Ministry and I will help them to round up the others. They are our enemies too now. Crabbe is dead, but Goyle has fled and we will be safer if he and Rowle and the others are locked up or dead. I _must_ help the Aurors to capture him, for our sake.’

‘Vincent Crabbe is dead too,’ Draco announced. ‘He conjured Fiendfire and couldn’t stop it. It devoured him.’

Lucius laughed bitterly. ‘The Half-blood Dark Lord promised a new era for Purebloods. And now we have it. He has cleverly ensured that there are very few of us left. There are no more Crabbes. The Lestranges are finished, Rabastan escaped, but he’s without an heir. Rodolphus and Bellatrix are both dead. Sirius, the last of the Blacks, died a blood traitor. The Potters polluted their blood when the last of that line married a Mudblood. The Weasley’s, and dozens of other once proud families, are blood traitors. Weasley blood is no longer pure, it’s not even human! Their eldest has married a filthy half-breed! Most of the so called “Purebloods” like Dolores Umbridge are nothing of the sort. Our world is gone! We have been tricked by a Half-blood into thinking that he would rid us of the scum. Instead, we must hope that the scum are merciful. What is the point of continuing?’

‘The point, Lucius, is our son.’ I reminded him. ‘The proud name of Malfoy lives on in him. But we must be careful. Our former friends are either dead, or they hate us. We will not be able to bribe our way out of trouble this time. I can see the new Minister in this room. Shacklebolt, hero of the resistance will be Minister within days. He will not be bribed. You must do what you must, Lucius, and I must visit my sister.’

‘I thought that she was dead,’ said Draco in surprise.

‘Until today, I had two sisters, Draco. And they hated each other. I think, perhaps, that when I was young and impressionable, I listened to the wrong one,’ I said.

‘Mother! You don’t really believe that,’ my son protested in horror. ‘She married a Mud-ggle and her Half-blood daughter married a…’

‘Whether or not I believe it is immaterial, Draco,’ I interrupted.’ Andromeda is the grandmother of Potter’s godson. Potter’s sense of duty will force him to support my sister, so we will support her too. I will be most generous to Andromeda, and so will you, Draco.’

I lifted my left hand and showed him my wedding ring, the white gold snake eating its own tail, the Ouroboros, the symbol of the Malfoys, and the symbol of the cyclical nature of everything.

‘Remember the Malfoy crest, Draco. Remember the ring, the circle, the Ouroboros, the wise snake. The world has turned, the cycle has ended, and a new cycle begins. Once again, we must re-create ourselves. We will survive, and we will rebuild, but we must be patient, cautious and clever.’


	24. Paperwork (Fatality No. 36)

**Paperwork (Fatality No. 36)**

_Form: AO/DMV(BH)_  
Possible Victim of Dark Magic (shortened form)  
Important: This shortened form (version BH) is authorised for use only for victims of the Battle of Hogwarts.  
Victim Ref.: DMLE(AO)/Battle/F36(Unknown)/AJW  
Preliminary Report by: Auror Aloysius J Webb  
Fatality No.: 36  
Location: Hogwarts grounds, sector six.  
Identity: Unknown (no identification found on corpse)  
Notes: Female, early twenties, auburn hair, height estimated at 5’ 5”, weight estimated at 9½ st.  
The body of this young woman was found by the author of this report, Auror A J Webb. There were no outward signs of injury; this lack of injuries suggests that this young woman suffered death by the killing curse.  
This female carried 15 Galleons, 11 Sickles and was discovered still holding her wand (Willow and Unicorn Hair: 10”). She wore casual robes.  
The victim was lying supine alongside the prone corpse of Fatality No. 35*. Location logged and confirmed by Auror A J Webb.  
*Fatality No. 35 (found adjacent to this victim) was identified by his DMLE identity card as Bailiff John Jenkins, based at the Diagon Alley Law Office (see file DMLE(AO)/Battle/F35(Jenkins, John, Bailiff) for more details). 

Al Webb rubbed moisture from the corner of his eyes as he reread the report he was writing. He cast his mind back to the moment when he’d found the body of the pretty young girl. She had been lying face up in a clearing; gazing up at the stars with vacant, sightless eyes. The young law office bailiff, Jenkins, lay prone alongside her, his arm draped almost protectively across her body.

_Female, early twenties, auburn hair._ The report was bland and impersonal; it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be able to assess the evidence neutrally and without emotion. He should be detached and professional. But what did those words mean? They did not mean cold-blooded, callous or heartless, he knew that.

There were over fifty dead, fifty-nine at the last count. At least a dozen of the dead were schoolchildren and the youngest of those was a lad of sixteen. Hours earlier Webb had met the boy’s parents; Creevey, they were called. They were both Muggles, but they were in the school. The Headmistress had removed the anti-Muggle charms to let them in, because they deserved to be here, they needed to be here. They were an ordinary couple who had lost an ordinary child, a child who had done extraordinary things.

Fatality No. 36 was someone’s daughter too, but whose? Her parents were not at the school. Presumably, they didn’t know that their child was dead. That was even worse than knowing the horrible truth. For Al Webb professional detachment was proving more difficult than ever.

Whose side had Fatality No. 36 fought on? He’d classified her as victim because she had no mask and, he admitted to himself, because she was pretty and normal-looking. He simply did not want her to be a Death Eater. Those feelings flew in the face of his Auror Training and he knew that old Mad-eye would have given him a right rollicking for them.

He could still see her sightless eyes, they were the same shade of brown as his daughter, Rebecca’s. Bekki, she called herself now. What a ridiculous way to shorten such a lovely name. The unknown girl was about the same age as Rebecca, too. Fatality No. 36 was in her early twenties, just like his daughter.

What if’s flooded his mind. He felt like his head would burst. He’d been disappointed in his daughter, because she’d been like his wife, not like him. But because of that, Rebecca was still alive. Many of the dead were his daughter’s age or younger. The kids had fought, and won, but they’d paid a heavy price for victory. He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palm and forcing himself to remember his training. Be professional, keep your distance. Do not get emotionally involved.

It was too late.

With a sigh, Al Webb forced himself to return to work. He used _Priori Incantatem_ to check the wands he’d removed from the bodies of Bailiff Jenkins and Fatality No. 36. As he expected, neither wand had been used to cast a Killing Curse. Jenkins’ wand had cast dozens of combat spells, all of which were fairly standard, and confirmed the young bailiff’s Magical Law Enforcement training. The spells were serviceable enough for use when dealing with drunks, thieves, and petty criminals, but Jenkins had not shown much imagination. He would have been out of his depth. As a bailiff in Magical Law Enforcement, he would have been used to dealing with misdemeanours, hexes and jinxes, not Unforgiveable Curses. Bailiff Jenkins was not much older than the girl he’d been found with.

The other wand, the girl’s wand, had been used to cast some very basic jinxes. If Jenkins had been out of his depth and floundering during the battle, the girl had been dropped in the middle of an ocean, unable to swim. She’d used a few very simple spells, but she’d apparently known fewer combat spells than most of the Hogwarts students who’d remained at the school. Many of those students had proved to be surprisingly adept.

Webb continued to check the wand. He went back through the spells, to the beginning of the Battle, and on to the earlier hours. He immediately found a few spells which puzzled him. After checking with a female colleague, Phillipa Fortesque, he discovered that they were make-up spells. ‘She wasn’t going out to fight, she was going out on a date,’ Phillipa told him with certainty.

The girl’s wand had rarely cast a hex and certainly nothing even close to an Unforgiveable Curse. This was the wand of a civilian, a girl who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Webb felt vindicated. His initial emotional assessment had been proved correct. He completed the form, underlining the word “victim” on the Preliminary Status Recommendation section of the form. He scored through only alternative “Death Eater/Supporter” a dozen times, and with such force that he actually tore the parchment. He was getting too old for this line of work, he thought. He’d seen too many corpses over the years.

Finally, in the “Notes” section at the bottom of the form he carefully and neatly wrote:

_Fatality No. 36 must be added to the “Identification Required” List._

_It is likely, given the proximity of this victim with the body of Bailiff John Jenkins, that colleagues of Bailiff Jenkins may be able to assist in identifying this unfortunate young woman and I recommend that my colleagues tasked with victim identification contact his office._

_A J Webb, Auror_

* * *

_Ref. DMLE(AO)/Battle/F36(Jackson, Christine Ann)/FFF_

_Final Report by: Auror Fiona F Fergus  
Jackson: Christine Ann (commonly known as “Tina”)_

Fiona Fergus looked up from the form she was completing and gazed around the classroom which was serving as a makeshift Auror Office. Their offices in the ministry in London had been reopened, but most of the surviving Aurors were still at Hogwarts, partly to provide security but mainly to remain close to the scene of the crime.

‘Anyone seen Spider?’ She addressed the question to the room in general.

‘He’s gone to bed. He’s been awake for forty-eight hours,’ Patience Blood told her. ‘And don’t let him hear you call him “Spider” Webb. You know that he hates it.’

Fiona simply nodded, then wrote “tell Spider” on the back of her hand with her quill. He’d want to know the identity of this girl. He had been constantly pestering her about this particular victim. The girl’s death had been bothering him. Spider had even offered to help identify her, though he was supposed to be working on preliminary status, not on final identification.

Fiona had been getting annoyed by his constant interference and had been rather rude to him. After Webb had left and gone back to his desk for the third time, Phillipa Fortescue had strolled over.

‘Al has a daughter about the same age as this victim, Fiona,’ Phillipa had whispered. ‘Al’s wife was killed when the Ministry tried to round us all up. His wife was a Muggle, and his daughter has no magic either. When Al’s wife died, the daughter lost herself in the Muggle world and he hasn’t seen her since.’

Fiona nodded. An estranged daughter might be an explanation, but it was not an excuse. Spider was getting personally involved.

Nevertheless, Webb’s suggestion in his final notes had been a good one. Fiona had Apparated to the Diagon Alley Law Office and had spoken to a grizzled old Bailiff named Albert Thynne, a colleague of Bailiff John Jenkins.

Thynne was a cautious and wily old man and it had taken Fergus a good twenty minutes to prove her identity to him. He was alone in the office, ‘guarding prisoners’ he said. He had seven people in the cells. Half-a-dozen were, he said, “Death Eaters,” something which Fiona thought unlikely. All of them were in their twenties and had been apprehended in the Leaky Cauldron before the battle. Auror Office resources were stretched, so it would be some time before they could be interviewed.

The seventh prisoner was Thynne’s boss, The Sheriff of the London Metropolis. The man was a suspected collaborator, every Auror knew that. The Sheriff looked in a bad way. He was lying in his cell groaning in pain, because his leg was broken. When Fiona queried this, Thynne, with a straight face, told her that the Sheriff had fallen downstairs on his way to the cells. There were no stairs in the Diagon Alley Law office.

The Sheriff’s wounds remained untreated because Thynne had sent the Duty Healer to Hogwarts, where, in his words, “she could help people who deserved to be helped”. Thynne, Fiona realised, should probably be charged with something – prisoner neglect at the very least. But she had neither the time, nor the inclination, to do anything about it.

Bailiff Thynne had been unable to provide a name for the girl, but had identified her, from the photograph of the corpse, as: “John Jenkins’ date. She was Secretary to that Death Eater – Gertrude Green – the woman Minister Thicknesse put in charge of Magical Law Enforcement. They had met at the Weasley shop when Green cast the Cruciatus Curse on Jenkins.”

Thynne had initially been stoic about Jenkin’s death. But the old man flew into a rage when he discovered that, although Green had at the battle, she had escaped. Fiona assured him that Green was already on the “Wanted by the Auror Office” list, a list that was being compiled and overseen by Harry Potter himself.

A check of Ministry records had led Fiona to provisionally identify Fatality No. 36 as Christine Ann Jackson. The official Ministry photograph in the girl’s personnel file confirmed this identification. After several hours of investigation the evidence finally indicated that Jackson and Jenkins were together in the Leaky Cauldron having a “romantic liaison” when the call to arms was broadcast by Potterwatch. They willingly went to Hogwarts to help in the defence of the school.

Fiona finally tracked down the girl’s parents in Kent. Tina Jackson had lived alone in a small flat in Diagon Alley. Her parents had no idea that she had gone to Hogwarts, and the unannounced arrival of an Auror with bad news had devastated them.

‘Why?’ they had asked.

Fiona could only guess at the girl’s motives, and her task had been made even more difficult by that fact. Fiona consoled herself with the knowledge that she had done her job. It hadn’t been easy, it never was, but now that the parents knew, the victim identification file could be closed. Of course, another file had to be opened too, because preliminary investigation of confiscated wands had not identified the wand used to kill Miss Jackson. Auror Fiona Fergus filled in the final section of the form.

_Conclusions:_  
Christine Ann Jackson was murdered by Dark Magic (the Killing Curse) by person (or persons) unknown.  
File to remain open pending further evidence. 

_Copies to: General Open Cases File (DMLE(AO)/Battle/GOC 1), Wanted Death Eater: Green, Gertrude (DMLE(AO)/Battle/Wanted/DE07)_

Fiona hesitated, it wasn’t the normal thing to do, but it wasn’t actually contrary to procedure. She made the decision.

_and to Auror A J Webb – for information_ she added.

* * *

_Sir_

_Please accept this letter as my resignation from the Auror Office, with immediate effect._

_Yours faithfully_

_Aloysius Jonah Webb_

Webb reread the short note again. Did he need to say more? What more was there to say? He folded and sealed the letter and put it on the shelf. Finding the remains of a leftover curry in his pantry, he warmed up the food and shovelled it down, wondering how long he’d had the curry as he did so. He refrained from drinking Firewhisky and limited himself to two bottles of Butterbeer.

Tonight, for only the second night since the battle, Al Webb would spend the night at home. Sleep didn’t come easy. It frightened him. When he closed his eyes he saw Tina Jackson, the girl with his daughter’s eyes, and for some reason her features always shifted and she became his daughter, lying dead. His dreams were of his daughter’s lifeless eyes staring at the stars.

He’d gone to the Jackson girl’s funeral and spoken to her parents. They had asked him about everything, but he had been unable to tell them anything useful. He had failed again.

A lot of people were dead. He’d attended many of the funerals, usually as an escort for Kingsley, or “the Minister”, as he must now learn to call his former colleague. Al had arrived at the Muggle funeral for the Creevey boy to discover that Potter and his friends had captured three of the wanted Death Eaters and that a fourth, Rowle, had been killed by his own cursed dagger. Gertrude Green was one of those captured and she had been charged with the murders of both Tina Jackson and her boyfriend, Bailiff Jenkins (along with many other offenses).

Al had volunteered to tell Tina Jackson’s parents. He had once again visited them, and seen more tears, and been unable to answer more questions. It wasn’t enough. Finding the killer didn’t stop her victims from being dead.

He’d had enough. Tomorrow, he would hand in his resignation. He stumbled into his bedroom, undressed, and crawled into bed.

The last week had been chaotic and busy. He’d hardly slept and he knew that he wasn’t eating properly. Lizzie would have scolded him, his wife would have fussed and they would have argued. But Lizzie was also dead; she’d been dead for almost a year. And he missed the bad times, the naggings, the arguments and fights, almost as much as he missed the good times. He wanted to be scolded, to be told that he was being foolish, that he was working too hard. But there was no one to tell him. He rolled over and tried to sleep.

Al Webb woke in a cold sweat. Bright morning sunlight streamed through his window, His entire body ached, but his stomach felt worst. His bedclothes were a constricting sticky tangle. The nightmares he’d suffered after his wife’s murder had returned, and last night they had mixed confusingly with the nightmares about Tina Jackson and his daughter. He fought his way out of bed and staggered into his bathroom.

He filled the washbasin with cold water and plunged his head into it. He didn’t bother to dry his face, but simply walked through his living room and into the kitchen, dripping cold water as he went. He opened a cupboard and his hand hovered above the bottle of Firewhisky. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb he screwed up his eyes and remembered.

‘There must be a better way to cope than Firewhisky for breakfast, Al,’ his wife told him firmly. He withdrew his hand, closed the cupboard door and walked back into the lounge.

Slumping into his chair he stared at his wife’s photograph.

‘I dreamed about your death again, Lizzie,’ he told the photograph. ‘I heard the door break down, heard you scream, and heard you die.’

‘You don’t know what happened, Al. You weren’t there,’ his wife reminded him. He fought back his tears.

‘I should have been! I should have been there for you Lizzie. I should have protected you, but no, I was at work, keeping the world safe. I still don’t know if we’ve succeeded.’

‘Keeping the world safe!’ his daughter screamed at him from the adjacent photograph. ‘You couldn’t even keep Mum safe! You failed us! I want nothing to do with you … you … wizard! Mum was always worried about you doing a dangerous job. But it was her who got killed! You should have been there! You should have died, not her. We could have lived a normal life! Just me and Mum, two ordinary people! You never liked me! You hated me because I was … I was a Squib!’ Webb tried to ignore his daughter’s angry shouts and concentrated on looking at his wife’s photograph.

‘Our daughter is still angry with me, Lizzie. Why doesn’t she understand? You understood. We were happy, weren’t we? Does Rebecca hate me because she doesn’t have magic, or because I do? Is that the same reason? Does she hate me because I couldn’t protect you from the Death Eaters? Or is it really because I once, stupidly, called her a Squib?’

The photograph of Lizzie Webb remained stubbornly silent.

‘I wanted to join you, during the Battle,’ he confessed. ‘But no matter how hard I tried, no one managed to kill me. I could have let them, I suppose, but there were children in that school, fighting, and they needed my help. They needed protection.’

‘You used to tell me “if I get killed in the line of duty, don’t let it consume you, live on for Rebecca’s sake”, remember?’ Webb’s wife finally spoke, her words dancing in the air before him. ‘You should do the same.’

‘Rebecca is twenty-two years old, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You’ve been dead for nine months, and Rebecca won’t see me, won’t speak to me. I haven’t seen her since your funeral. She moved house. I’ve no idea where she is, Lizzie. I’ve lost her.’

Al Webb fought back a sob. ‘I thought I saw her at the Battle. But it wasn’t her. It was a different girl with the same colour eyes. She was dead; someone else’s daughter was dead. She was called Tina, and she had a boyfriend. We found the woman who killed them, Gertrude Green. She’s in Azkaban. But the girl and her boyfriend are still dead. Does it matter? Does anything? I don’t even know if Rebecca has a boyfriend.’

His wife’s photograph remained silent.

‘We’ve won, Lizzie, but children have died, good people have died. I’m a tired and lonely old man without friends or family. And I don’t even know whether our daughter is alive.’

‘Then find her,’ his wife told him. ‘And Al, my daft old husband, never re-heat four-day-old curry.’

Al Webb lurched forwards in his chair and puked onto the floor. He remained on his hands and knees, his stomach heaving, for several minutes. His cold sweat and his stomach ache were gone. But he didn’t feel any better.

He’d been hallucinating.

‘Find our daughter,’ his wife’s photograph told him. He was still hallucinating. But…

* * *

It had only taken a day, less, in fact. He’d initially asked advice of Philippa Fortescue, she hadn’t been much help, but while they’d been talking Polly Protheroe had limped into the office to see how things were. Al suspected that Polly had simply called in to see what trainee Auror Potter looked like – the number of young female Ministry employees who found an excuse to visit the Auror Office was staggering). Phillipa called Protheroe over and explained Al’s problem to the spiky-haired girl.

‘Can your daughter drive a car?’ Protheroe asked.

‘I think so,’ he’d said. Protheroe had taken Rebecca’s name and date of birth, and returned an hour later with an address.

‘That was easy, the Muggles keep records of everyone with a driving licence,’ Protheroe told him.

* * *

Now here he was, walking through the bustling streets of Salisbury. He’d scribbled the address on the back of his resignation letter. Phillipa had persuaded him to wait a few more days before handing it in.

He’d see what Rebecca said, if she would speak to him.

The Muggles walking past him didn’t know it, but this was a new world, a different world. It seemed that things really were changing. Perhaps he did have a future. He found the street on the edge of the town centre, and checked the address. His daughter was living in a modern brick building. The stainless steel panel next to the door had four numbers and names next to four buttons. The name next to button three was Bekki Webb. He was about to ring the bell when a tall young man opened the door. Al took his opportunity and stepped inside.

The door to the left bore a number one, the one to the right was number two. Al climbed the stairs and found flat three. Steeling himself, he stepped forwards and rang the bell. He immediately heard movement.

‘You idiot, Simon,’ you’ve forgotten your key again…’ his daughter was already talking as she opened the door. She was an impulsive chatterbox. She looked at him in surprise and he discovered that he was unable to speak.

‘Dad!’ she said. ‘My god, you look dreadful! What’s happened?’

He burst into tears, and she threw her arms around him.


	25. Index

**Index**

The orderly classification of information is everything. It is essential, it brings order from chaos. It combines utility and beauty.

It is difficult to cling to this belief. The information I have painstakingly collected over the past few hours is ugly, but the truth often is. I have indexed injuries, listed lacerations, collated casualties and catalogued crimes. I have carefully created a directory of the dead.

My presence in the Hospital Wing was questioned by many.

I am not well liked by the students, I know that. They are foolish, unruly and disrespectful towards my charges. Even the brightest of students treat my books with a contemptible lack of respect. They vandalise and vilipend them. They turn page corners rather than use a bookmark. They deface them with inane scribbles and unfunny jokes. They are incapable of seeing the beauty and power of books, but are capable of spotting an almost-rude word or phrase in the most serious of texts, and encircling it for others to find!

They are so childish!

 _‘That is because they are children, Irma,’_ Albus Dumbledore’s oft repeated reminder remains in my head.

Children do not deserve to die. No one deserves to die ... well … except, perhaps, some who are more monster than person.

I would have defended Poppy, had the need arisen. I am a reasonably proficient duellist, and I am certainly used to dealing with odd, unusual, and highly dangerous spells. The Libraries Restricted Section can occasionally be a very dangerous place.

I have filled over one hundred pages of Poppy’s journal tonight. Every injury, every statement has been painstakingly penned. There are fifty-nine dead and a similar number seriously injured. I can provide information to anyone who asks. I can re-index the dead and injured by age, sex, occupation, time of injury, time of death, and cause of death (which, far too often, is the Killing Curse). I have the power of knowledge and organisation. I can distil a bewildering array of facts into an orderly and easily understood system, because I am a librarian.

Poppy is exhausted, and so are the students who have helped her. Soon, when we can be certain of the competence of the volunteers who have arrived from St Mungo’s, we will join the celebrations. Then we can finally rest.

In the aftermath of this night, as we leave the caliginosity of the past, we can but hope that the events of this abstergent evening will bring an end to years of gloom.

I of course, did nothing in the Battle. Several people have already told me this.

I did not fight and I did not heal, therefore, I did nothing.

I worked all night, doing nothing.

With quill in hand, I recorded the night’s events. Nothing? A waste of time? I do not think so. I am no Healer, no Auror and no warrior. I did what I could, what I do best.

Historians will thank me; Auror Shacklebolt has already thanked me, and taken a copy of my information.

The Library teaches silence, stillness and order. The library gives knowledge. I have read the histories. I know that the death toll during the Goblin Rebellions was higher, and that the atrocities carried out by both sides were greater, perhaps that is why I can cope. Worse things _have_ happened to wizardkind. They have not, however, happened to these wizards.

Is one tragedy less than another simply because it was long ago, or because there are fewer corpses? Is it greater because several of the victims were teenagers?

I am approached by an Auror, a woman named Phillipa. She takes me to a classroom filled with her harassed and extremely busy colleagues. I answer their questions. The Aurors, too, are attempting to make order from chaos and my notes provide them with vital information.

Remus Lupin was killed by Anton Dolohov, I tell them. I give the names of those who witnessed his death, and reported it to me when his body arrived. Dolohov was subsequently stunned by Professor Flitwick, but died when a giant thrown boulder landed on his unconscious body.

‘He didn’t suffer then?’ one Auror mutters. ‘Pity.’

Lupin’s wife was killed by her aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix was, in turn, killed by Molly Weasley. The remains of Bellatrix’s husband, Rodolphus, were found in the forest; he was full of Acromantula venom. No witnesses have come forward. Perhaps his death was an accident. As I continue down my list, I am thanked and thanked again.

Unfortunately, I fail Minerva McGonagall when she too arrives to request information. The youngest casualty of the Battle, Colin Creevey, died alone. His death, like that of Rodolphus Lestrange and several others, was not witnessed. It was unreported until his body was found and brought to the Hospital Wing. I scour my notes and tell the acting Headmistress everything I know.

I tell her that Poppy examined the body and declared that the boy had died from the Killing Curse. He had, however, been injured shortly before his death. He had three broken ribs, injuries which were consistent with him having been hit by the end of a pole, a broom, probably. Poppy should know, as she has seen many students rammed by brooms over the years.

Colin Creevey’s wand was not with him when he was brought inside. His body was found by Oliver Wood and Neville Longbottom and they provided me with its location.

Creevey’s devastated parents, and his distraught brother, want answers. I cannot provide them. The boy’s wand was not where he fell. Perhaps his killer took it? I can tell them where his body was found, and approximately when. I can even tell them that he probably saved the life of an Auror, a woman called Protheroe. But I cannot tell them who killed their son.

Minerva summons both Wood and Longbottom and questions them carefully. They looked for his wand, they tell her, but did not find it. The Longbottom boy looks exhausted, he is close to tears as he talks. Wood is sombre, but he is being supported by a girl he calls Katie and they are sharing their grief.

‘Sorry, Professor,’ Longbottom apologises.

Minerva McGonagall cuts across him, she too is close to tears, and her voice catches in her throat as she speaks.

‘You did a magnificent job this year, Mr Longbottom,’ she tells him. ‘You are a credit to your parents, to Gryffindor House and to Hogwarts. I am certain that your grandmother will be very proud of you.’

Longbottom stands tall for a moment, then slumps again.

‘But Colin’s dead,’ he says. ‘And so is Fred Weasley. How many died?’

‘Fifty-nine, including eight definitely from the other side, and five more who, at the moment, we have no idea about,’ I tell him. ‘But the Aurors and Law Officers are still searching the grounds.’

‘Try to rest, Neville,’ says Minerva gently. ‘You need it.’

She dismisses the youngsters and watches them leave.

‘Can I rely on your discretion, Irma?’ she asks.

‘Of course,’ I assure her. She casts several security spells, ensuring that we will not be overheard.

‘Do we have any books relating to the creation of a _Horcrux_?’ she asks, whispering the final word.

‘No,’ I tell her.

‘No?’ She is on edge, and it is obvious that she does not believe me. I decide to trust her with my greatest secret.

‘Albus removed them all, the year before last,’ I tell her. ‘He asked my permission, of course. I know my shelves, and he knew that I would notice if he simply took them.’

‘Do you know what he did with them?’ Minerva asks.

‘He said that he was taking them to his office for safekeeping. But they were not there after he was killed, Minerva, I checked. Either he destroyed them, or…’

‘Or Potter, or more likely Miss Granger, took them,’ Minerva suggests. I nod.

‘From what I hear, Potter certainly seemed to know what he was doing,’ I reply. ‘Albus asked me to tell no one, Minerva. I have broken his trust by telling even you.’

‘Your secret is safe with me, Irma,’ she assures me. ‘I will speak to Potter, but I suspect that he too will want this kept secret. He may even have destroyed the books. Would that bother you?’

The idea of destroying books is repugnant. It goes against everything I have been taught, everything I believe. Books lift the brume of ignorance. But perhaps the loss forever of those dreadful books would be condign, an appropriate threnody for the fallen.

‘Not at all,’ I tell her.

**Author's Note:**

> These are the stories which got me banned from HarryPotterFanfiction.com three years ago. They have been rewritten and expanded. It was because I wanted to expand them, and correct the grammar and spelling, that I was banned.
> 
> Perhaps I should expand on the above, because the story is a bit more complicated than that.
> 
> HPFF run (or ran; I’m not sure) a “House Collaboration Challenge” and one of the challenges was to write as many stories about the Battle of Hogwarts as possible. Because it was a “collaboration” challenge, the stories were submitted to a mod. The mod uploaded them into a shared story file which the authors couldn’t access.
> 
> The HPFF contest was going for quantity, not quality, and that's what they got from me. My original (challenge) versions of these tales of the Battle were really little more than first draft plot outlines and they contained a lot of embarrassing typos. Many of them were only 500-800 words long (500 words was the minimum allowable for a valid submission). 
> 
> I knew that they could be better so, after the contest closed, I began to rewrite and re-order them. The stories weren’t submitted in the order I’m submitting them here and were scattered through the (200+) chapters of the collaboration. HPFF rules did not allow me to resubmit the stories I’d written under my own name. A story can only appear on HPFF once (which is reasonable) and because they already existed as chapters of the collaboration I could not submit even an edited version under my own name. In order to be allowed to submit edited versions of my stories I asked (and was given permission by) both my house and the moderators to remove my stories from the collaboration.
> 
> This is where things get weird. Two months after the competition closed (and a month after I'd received permission to remove my stories from the collaboration) a senior admin suddenly introduced a new rule declaring that removing stories from a collaboration was "contrary to the family nature of the site" and that "from here forwards" all such stories would have all of their reviews removed, and any future reviews would be deleted too.
> 
> I naïvely assumed that this wouldn't apply to me. After all, Dolores Umbridge couldn't punish Harry for creating the DA because (as Dumbledore pointed out) he did it the day before she made the decree banning new organisations. Even in the less than perfect wizarding world, new laws aren't applied retrospectively. That was when I discovered that HPFF are not as fair and reasonable as Dolores Umbridge. I queried the admin's decision, and was instantly banned. My stories were deleted and I became an unperson. The official reason for my ban was that I was “disruptive and disrespectful towards the mods” (after they had introduced a new rule which allowed them to delete all of the reviews of my story).
> 
> Until the new rule was introduced I had never received any warnings. Thanks to the rule I went from "just another writer" to rule-breaker and I was banned within two days of its imposition. 
> 
> This, rewritten version, of these stories contains twenty-five chapters, not the twenty-two I originally submitted. It will be 52,000+ words, not the original 29,000. If anyone is interested, the three new chapters are the final three. Paperwork grew from a story rejected from the collaboration (not an easy thing to achieve, but it started as an attempt to tell a story using only the official reports, and thus broke submission rules). Ouroboros and Index are entirely new. These Tales of the Battle (along with Fred and George's Busy Day, Summer of '97, and Grave Days) form the foundation on which all of my other stories are built.
> 
> Finally: this motley collection of tales would not have been possible without the help and encouragement of my fellow Gryffindors at HPFF, many of whom caught the gross errors in the early drafts. Nor would it have taken this shape without my brilliant betas. In alphabetic order they were: Andrea, Apurva (who did the first few chapters), Justice, and Molly. Thank you all for reading these tales, and I apologise for this rant.


End file.
